




























































GPO 









MARSH LIGHTS 















J 

MARSH LIGHTS 


BY 

RACHEL SWETE A/IACNAMARA 


f 


Author of “Stolen Honey” 


“Many there be that follow marsh lights, though the 
stars are shining overhead ” 



BOSTON 

SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 









Copyright, 1925 

By SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 

(Incorporated) 





> . .1 


Printed in the United States of America 


THE MURRAY PRINTING COMPANY 
CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 

THE BOSTON BOOKBINDING COMPANY 
, CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 


JUN 2B *25 


/ 


©C1A829878 




"VyO 'V- 


GLADYS RICHARDSON 

WITH MY LOVE, IN MEMORY OF PAST PLEASANT HOURS 
AND IN HOPE OF FUTURE ONES 
























CONTENTS 


PACE 

Part I Moonlight. 1 

Part II Marshlight. 107 

Part III Daylight. 217 



















PART I 
MOONLIGHT 




















MARSH LIGHTS 


PART I 
MOONLIGHT 
I 

“ An infinite twilight of content with nothing more to 
lose,” Yule Amber read aloud. “ What tosh! That’s 
not worth carting to Caroline Place at any rate! An 
anaemic dustman may solace his soul with it, but it’s cer¬ 
tainly not the ideal for a red-blooded man.” He smiled 
at the phrase as he tossed the slim booklet into the waste- 
paper basket, already full to overflowing, and glanced at 
his own thin hands: the hands of an artist, an enthusiast, 
a Romantic. 

There you have his character and temperament in 
three words, perhaps in one, the last. 

“ Am I a red-blooded man?” he mused. “1 wonder? 
Would a red-blooded man have stuck to poor Amy for ten 
disillusioning years and married her when the dream was 
past and the dreamer only too well aware that he had 
awakened?” He frowned, sighed, and straightened his 
bent shoulders. “ Yes. Unless the red-blooded man 
were also an unmitigated cad. Yet—would the cad’s 
way have been the kindest in the end? I don’t know. 
It’s inconceivable that Amy should have missed nothing. 
Who can clip the wings of a dream and put it into a cage 
of reality without spoiling its beauty? It was the 
cynical old wizard, Time, who turned the vision golden 
into fat, fair and forty. I daresay he changed me as 
extraordinarily as he did her.” 

3 


4 


MARSH LIGHTS 


The lie was a loyal one, for in his inmost heart Yule 
Amber knew that he had changed but little, save in ex¬ 
ternals, from the queer little boy who used to dream 
dreams and see visions in the attic under the eaves of his 
old home. Under those eaves, too, he had seen his 
dreams take flight, one by one. 

I. To be a great artist. 

That dream had had the rainbow gleam of an angel’s 
wing as it fled. 

II. Just to draw, and to go on drawing! 

That one flashed in its going with the kingfisher’s blue, 
as the bank doors closed upon it, shutting it out. 

III. To find the ideal woman! 

At twenty-three he had met Amy Barron, who at 
thirty-two still possessed a fair and blue-eyed comeliness 
and a charm of easy softness that had captured his 
young senses. 

IV. To live in a home where simplicity should blend 
with beauty, where even poverty could not shackle high 
ideals, where life might be lived sweetly, kindly, if 
austerely. 

After ten years of waiting, punctuated by the sordid¬ 
ness and the “ glory ” of war, during which Amy, who 
would take no risks, put the claim of relative after rela¬ 
tive before that of her lover, this little meanly planned 
house in Radnor Crescent, run by a plump, amiable, 
fussy woman, whose ideal was “To make poor Yule 
really comfortable,” and who almost succeeded in stifling 
him with frilly curtains and pink silk cushions. 

V. “Plain living and high thinking!” 

How could one live plainly with Amy, who loved good 
food and comfort and whose sole conception of masculine 
needs lay in Punch’s dictum, “Feed the brute!”? 

High thinking was difficult in a life bounded by un¬ 
congenial work on the one side and a forced intimacy 
with a total stranger on the other. 

Yes. That was what Amy had been. Yule Amber 


MOONLIGHT 


5 


realized with sick dismay soon after his wedding-day 
that he had married a woman who was utterly alien to 
him in thought, word and deed. 

Fortunately for her own happiness, Amy Amber 
grasped nothing of this. She was fond of her husband 
with a half-contemptuous toleration of his “ queerness,” 
which gave her a pleasant sense of superiority. She cer¬ 
tainly made him comfortable: she imagined that she 
made him happy. 

That was the ironic pity of it. 

They met mentally nowhere. Physical contact left the 
fastidious Yule still unsatisfied. He craved the union of 
soul as well as body. 

Amy would have thought this “ high-falutin’ non¬ 
sense ” had he told her so. Souls were souls and bodies 
were bodies and neither had any real tangible connection 
with the other. . . . And Yule would cheerfully have 
been drawn asunder by red-hot pincers before he would 
have made such a confession to her. 

Yule had once had many illusions. He had few now. 
Amy had always had delusions. She kept them intact to 
the end. 

“No two people could be more devoted to each other 
than Yule and I are,” she said once emphatically to 
Nanetty Cotes, Yule’s crook-backed cousin, who had 
been brought up with him. 

“ Really?” Nanetty answered politely, while inwardly 
she added, “What blind bats some women are!” 

Amy undisguisedly pitied Nanetty for not being 
married. 

“ Poor thin wisp! But I don’t suppose any man 
would look at her with that crooked shoulder of hers. 
She’s got such a sharp tongue, too! Men don’t like that. 
They prefer a woman to be soft and comfortable.” She 
pulled down her rose-coloured silk jumper and eyed with 
complacency the amplitude of her own curves. “ Poor 
Nanetty, with her painting and her odd notions! She 


6 


MARSH LIGHTS 


hasn’t the least idea, really, how to look after a man. 
She’d forget all about his dinner if she was copying one 
of those hideous stiff little pictures of hers. And she is 
so silent sometimes. Not a word to throw to a dog. A 
man likes to have some one to chat to him at his meals. I 
save up all the little bits of gossip for Yule, and I 
know he likes it. . . 

And now the comfortable, chatty Amy was dead, and 
the thin wisp Nanetty (who really knew everything and 
to whom one could say anything) looked after Yule 
Amber to his great, but half-guilty content. 

The consciousness of freedom which at times surged 
about him like a mighty rushing wind, at times also 
stirred his sensitive conscience to a pricking feeling of 
disloyalty towards the dead woman. 

He was aware of it now as he sat at his desk in the 
narrow austere slip of a room, which should have been 
his dressing-room had he not felt the greater urgency of 
some little hole into which he could creep when he 
needed to be alone. Amy could understand his retiring 
to a study. She could never have seen any reason for 
his shutting himself up in his dressing-room. 

“ Amy is a wonderful discoverer — of the obvious,” 
Nanetty had once said dryly. 

Yule remembered that as he unearthed a packet of 
letters at the back of a pigeon-hole in his desk. 

They were some of the letters which Amy had written 
to him in the early days of their engagement. A mem¬ 
ory flashed back at sight of them: his one discovery, 
perhaps, of the obvious. 

He had come across them by chance a year or two 
after his marriage, and had been reading them with 
amazement just as Amy came into the room. Was it pos¬ 
sible that it was she who had written them? Some of 
them showed a tenderness, an almost passionate deli¬ 
cacy of feeling of which he could scarcely believe her 
capable, so utterly materialized had she become. 


MOONLIGHT 


7 


He remembered that he had started almost guiltily as 
she entered: flushed and stretched an instinctive hand 
over the scattered sheets. 

“ What are you doing, Yule?” she asked curiously. 

“ Reading old love-letters.” 

“ Who are they from?” 

“Some one you don’t even know,” he answered, spurred 
by a queer impulse. 

“ Then I think I ought to see them.” Half laughing, 
half annoyed, she had stretched her hand over his shoul¬ 
der, picked up a letter and glanced at it. Her comfortable 
chuckle roused an unacknowledged resentment. “Why, 
you silly old boy, they’re my letters, after all!” 

“ Whose else could they be?” 

“ Then why did you say I didn’t even know the per¬ 
son who wrote them?” 

“ Well, you’ve forgotten her, outgrown her, haven’t 
you? You wrote those letters nearly twelve years ago. 
You’ve changed since then.” 

“ I should think I have,” smiled Amy complacently, 
“ I was a silly sentimental creature in those days. I was 
always putting bits out of books into your letters to 
make them sound well.” 

“Oh! . . . Were you?” He might have known, but 
how should he, after all? 

“We understand each other now, though, don’t we?” 
Amy continued, her hand, heavily possessive, on his 
shoulder. 

“ Quite,” Yule answered, a corresponding weight at his 
heart. 

How vividly it all came back to him! He covered his 
eyes, a deep sigh wrung from him. Poor Amy! His con¬ 
science smote him. Was there anything else he could 
have done for her? He had tried, honestly. 

“ The best of husbands . . . the best . . .” she had 
murmured as she died with her hand in his. 

How was it that she had not seen, had not known? 


8 


MARSH LIGHTS 


. . . Or had she? . . . The thought returned to torment 
him still, although it was nearly a year since her death. 

There was a little knuckley knock at the door: Nan- 
etty’s knock. 

He raised his head with a sense of relief. Nanetty 
was like a tonic wind. 

“ Come in,” he cried eagerly. 

II 

Annette Cotes’ early school-days had been made mis¬ 
erable to her by an unkind little girl who whispered 
or shouted in her ear (according to the occasion) the old 
nursery-rhyme riddle of the candle. 

“Little Nanetticoat 
Has a white petticoat 
And a red nose! 

The longer she lives 

The shorter she grows!” 

The sting of it lay in the sharp morsel of malicious 
truth it contained, for Annette, with her crooked 
shoulder, did not grow as did the other girls of her age, 
and her red hair (her one real beauty) was certainly 
bright enough to be compared to a candle-flame. 

It was only after careful and tender probing that her 
aunt, Mrs. Amber (who mothered her with her own 
orphaned baby) discovered the hidden sore. She healed 
it once for all by turning the mockery into a love-name. 

“ My own little Nanetticoat,” she called the child, and 
taught the nickname to the baby Yule, who immediately 
shortened it to Nanetty. After that the name jarred no 
longer, save when used by lips whose right to it she 
questioned. 

Amy Barron had been one of these, but from her 
Nanetty endured the liberty in silence. With other 
offenders a sharp reminder —“ My name is Annette, 
please —” had always been sufficient to prevent a repeti- 


MOONLIGHT 


9 


tion of the offence, but Nanetty never had the courage to 
do anything which might possibly hurt the woman to 
whom her beloved Yule was engaged. 

His gallant assumptions, his brave pretences never for 
an instant deceived her. She felt each swift disillusion¬ 
ment as if it had been her own. His pin-pricks became 
sword-thrusts to her loyal heart, though for her pride 
and his she hid the vicarious hurt deep. 

For Yule’s sake she had tried her hardest to love Amy 
Barron, but she could not succeed in even liking her. For 
Amy Amber she had felt the profoundest pity for all that 
she was missing and the fiercest anger for all that she 
was muffing. 

Nanetty knew Yule through and through. The eight 
years’ difference in their ages infused her love for him 
with an almost maternal passion. She yearned over him, 
understood him, saw through his strength to his weak¬ 
nesses, and often longed to shake him. 

She entered his little room now hastily, in a dull blue 
overall patterned with yellow apples and green leaves, her 
glorious hair ruffled and untidy, a dust-smear across one 
thin cheek, purple shadows under her grey eyes. 

“ What on earth are you doing, Yule? Brooding, 
sentimentalizing?” she cried, with a sharp glance at the 
letters on his desk. 

Yule looked up half guiltily, half deprecatingly, one 
lock of hair falling as usual into the grey eyes that were 
so like those now bent upon him. 

“ I was really tidying my desk and getting rid of 
what I didn’t want to keep, before the furniture-movers 
come. There’s no use in carting unnecessary rubbish 
with us to Caroline Place.” 

“ No,” Nanetty admitted, sinking into a chair with a 
sigh. “ There’s enough rubbish there already. I’ll have 
to spend all day to-morrow sorting it out. You’ve got to 
come too, Yule. Cousin Henry left the house to you, 
remember.” 


10 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ Am I likely to forget? Bless his glorious memory!” 
cried Yule, brushing back the errant lock. His eyes 
glowed with a sudden fire. “ What a life we’ll have, 
Nanetty! Just imagine—a house and five hundred a year 
and nothing in the world for us to do except me to draw 
and you to paint all day long. Think of it!” 

“Ah—my painting!” Nanetty’s thin brows drew 
together in a frown. “ How I wish I could originate as 
you do, Yule. It seems such a feeble thing to be always 
copying other people’s work.” 

“ But you copy so exquisitely, old thing. Your little 
early Italian and Dutch pictures seem to me to be almost 
as good as the originals.” 

“Almost! There! You’ve put your finger on it. 
There’s always something lacking in a copy. The spirit, 
the essence, the inspiration is missing. Now your draw¬ 
ing may be faulty where mine is correct, but you can 
create where I can only copy. That’s just the difference 
between us. You are original where I am imitative. Don’t 
imagine that I don’t realize my limitations, and loathe 
them, but what’s the use in kicking against steel bars? 
They will cage me to the end. I can’t get out.” 

“ You’re tired. You’re not to do another blessed thing 
to-night. When do we ‘bend with the removers to 
remove’?” 

“ Not till Friday, thank Heaven.” 

“ And this is Tuesday evening. Two more days in 
which to breathe-” 

“ And in which to burn your old love-letters,” said 
Nanetty firmly, pointing an accusing finger. “ It’s all 
over and done with now, Yule. Cut it out of your life 
and begin afresh. Don’t go trailing cobwebs from the 
dusty past into your nice clean future.” 

“ Have I been a fool or a knave, Nanetty?” asked 
Yule in a queer shamed whisper. “I’ve just been 
wondering.” 

“ A bit of both, I think.” Nanetty’s lips drew to a 



MOONLIGHT 


11 


thin line as she beat a little tattoo on the edge of Yule’s 
desk. Then she broke out suddenly, as if half against 
her will: “Still, it was chivalrous folly and kindhearted 
knavery, if there is such a thing, and I think it served its 
purpose in letting poor Amy die happy. But there must 
be no more of it, Yule. At thirty-seven you haven’t got 
time for making any more vital mistakes. You paid 
for the last one with your youth. Don’t play about again 
with the big things of life. You’ll only get hurt a second 
time if you do. You’ve got an absolutely fresh start now, 
a chance vouchsafed to few people. Don’t mess it up. 
Don’t do exactly the same thing over again, like the 
people in ‘Dear Brutus.’ Prove Barrie the cynic that he 
really is by steering an entirely different course this time, 
and making a success of it.” 

“You mean-?” he looked up quickly. That was 

the comfort of Nanetty: a word, a glance, a tone sufficed 
with her. One need never end one’s sentences or even 
begin them properly. She understood. 

“ You know quite well what I mean. Let it be the 
real thing or nothing next time.” 

“ Next time? Do you really want me to marry again?” 

“ Of course I don’t. I should simply hate you to 
marry again. It would spoil everything. I am perfectly 
content with things as they are. But you won’t be so for 
long, and it isn’t natural that you should. You mustn’t 
miss the best thing in life just so that you and I may go 
on leading our present happy-go-lucky bachelor existence. 
There are to be no ridiculous Quixotic scruples about 
that. I won’t have it. I am ready to pack my red cotton 
handkerchief and slip away at a moment’s notice. 
Remember that.” 

“ Nanetty! ” 

“ If you come across the big thing — Promise me, 
Yule.” 

She stopped abruptly, rose and came over to the 
desk. Leaning against its edge she put out one hand 



12 


MARSH LIGHTS 


and gathered Amy’s spurious love-letters together, as if 
casually. 

Yule took the groping hand in his, letters and all. 

“ I’ll promise anything you like, old thing.” 

“ No, no. That won’t do. I’m perfectly serious, 
Yule.” 

“ I find it hard to be serious when I think of Cousin 
Henry’s windfall. Yet, even that I feel I got under false 
pretences. He looked on me as the steady bank clerk, 
pure and simple-” 

“ So you were, to him.” 

“ The merest veneer. He hadn’t the faintest idea of 
the real lunatic me underneath, who wants to do all sorts 
of idiotic things, smell lilac, roll my face in white clover, 
draw drunken bumble-bees fighting, bay the moon like a 
prairie-dog, 1 in such a night as this ’-” 

“Well, so you can, you ingenious self-tormentor!” 
said Nanetty practically. “ Every one has got his mad 
streak. In some it’s genius. In some merely eccen¬ 
tricity. In the majority it’s so overlaid by different strata 
of the commonplace that it never has a chance of cropping 
up. Perhaps old Henry’s streak consisted in making 
you his sole heir.” 

“ That was mad enough for anything,” said Yule. 
“ But what a heavenly madness for us! It sets us both 
free to do the work we like best at last.” 

“ You don’t imagine that I’m going to fold my hands 
in idleness and let you support me? Thanks, my boy. 
I value my independence too much for that.” 

“ You and your independence!” scoffed Yule. “ Aren’t 
you still tied to old Brand?” 

“ Yes. For two years longer I am under contract not 
to copy pictures for any one but him. He pays me quite 
well, Yule. He says my copies always command a ready 
sale.” 

“ How much does he get for them, I wonder?” 

“ That doesn’t concern me so long as he pays me a 




MOONLIGHT 


13 


fair price.” Nanetty pushed back her hair. “ What I 
really came in to ask was, are you going to let Allenson 
have the furniture of this house at a valuation or do you 
wish to have a sale here?” 

Yule looked at her reproachfully. 

“ You know I have no wishes on the subject. Yes, I 
have. Once we leave this detestable little house I don’t 
want to see one item of its furniture ever again, except 
this old friend.” He laid his hand on the desk. “ I don’t 
care who has it or what is done with it so long as it is 
out of my sight.” 

Nanetty moved as if to go. “ Then I should advise you 
to let Allenson have it. That would save trouble all 
round. You don’t mind if I take my painting things and 
the bedroom furniture that was my mother’s with me?” 

“ Idiot!” 

“ There is a fire still in the kitchen range if you want 
to burn anything.” 

“ Thanks.” 

“ Or shall I?” She made a tentative gesture. 

Yule took the letters out of her hand. “ No. I’d 
rather do it myself,” he answered in a low tone. 

“ Don’t forget to write to Allenson. He wants an 
answer by to-morrow.” 

“ I’ll write at once and take the letter to the post my¬ 
self. I want to get out.” 

“ Prairie-dog?” She smiled at him. 

“ Don’t be afraid. I shan’t bay the moon in the 
purlieus of Bloomsbury.” It was pleasant to be under¬ 
stood as Nanetty understood him. He had not yet got 
over the happy novelty of having it in his daily life. He 
stopped her with a gesture as she was leaving the room. 
“If we’re not taking any furniture with us, why the 
removers? Can’t we walk straight out and leave this 
place just as it is?” 

Nanetty straightened herself wearily. This was cer¬ 
tainly one of the moments when she wanted to shake Yule, 


14 


MARSH LIGHTS 


yet she answered with a patience that strove to dull the 
edge of the sharpness she felt: “ My furniture has to go 
and your old desk. Besides, there is your mother’s china 
and your books, to say nothing of our own personal 
belongings.” 

“No pink cushions. No bamboo. No aspidistras. No 
imitation lacquer. No lace chair-backs. No over-mantels. 
No bows. No frills. No saddle-bags,” chanted Yule. 

“ Certainly not. And no delay in writing to Allenson 
and posting the letter! Lock up when you come in. The 
water is still hot. I’m going to have a bath and go to 
bed.” 

“ Off with you, old thing. You look worn out. I’ll 
lock the hall-door and make as little noise as possible 
when I come in.” 

Nanetty smiled: a rather twisted smile. Did he 
imagine that she could sleep until she knew that he was 
safely housed? 

“ Goodnight, Yule.” 

“Goodnight, Nanetticoat!” 

Ill 

A red glow in the range vaguely illumined the dusk of 
the little kitchen across which the light from the hall gas- 
jet cut a sharp diagonal of yellow near the door. 

Yule groped for the poker, lifted the round lid from the 
top of the fireplace, dropped in his packet of letters and 
put on the cover again. 

For a moment he watched the result through the bars. 
The letters did not catch fire at first, they merely 
smouldered, sending out a faintly acrid smoke. Then a 
spurt of flame touched them, ran along edge after edge, 
curling them up until at last nothing was left but a little 
sheaf of brown-black flakes, the white ghosts of words 
standing out on them here and there. 

“ . . . not really lived until I loved you,” he read 


MOONLIGHT 


IS 


on one curved sheet, while from another . . . “ love 

you so it hurts . . . ” sprang at him from an un¬ 

remembered context. 

Poor Amy. . . . Another quotation! She had 

never loved any one or anything so that it hurt. . . . 

Poor comfortable Amy! . . . 

Well, that episode was ended—or was it an epoch? At 
times the days of his youth seemed distant and unreal as 
if they belonged to some previous and half-forgotten 
existence. They were over now, the days of “long, long 
thoughts ” and rainbow visions. ... Or were they? 

Surely at thirty-seven a man had not yet reached even 
the prime of life. Surely a semblance of youth was still 
to be found on the sunny side of forty. Not alone that 
unconquerable youth of the spirit against which even the 
wizard Time has no efficacious spells, but a visible, 
tangible, physical youth, of active limbs, firm muscles, 
perfect health and the joy of life. 

Despite his pallor and the sedentary life he had been 
obliged to lead, Yule Amber was neither slack nor flabby. 
He had kept up the “ physical jerks ” of his Army days 
to the best of his ability, and walked for exercise on every 
possible opportunity. The Pauline warfare between flesh 
and spirit shook him occasionally, but always in the end 
the spirit conquered. This gave a finely-sharpened out¬ 
line to features which were in no other way remarkable, 
deepened the expression of eyes grey as rain, and lent a 
whimsical sweetness to a mouth that might otherwise have 
twisted cynically. 

Amber straightened his shoulders as if he were throw¬ 
ing off a burden as he closed the hall-door of No. 23, 
Radnor Crescent, behind him and went down the 
infinitesimal pathway that led to the iron gate which shut 
it off from the road outside. 

Even in the moonlight the smug little houses owned no 
borrowed touch of mystery. They looked, with their shut¬ 
tered windows, like blank faces; any secret or personality 


16 


MARSH LIGHTS 


that they might be holding in their shallow depths 
was carefully hidden behind their uniform veneer of 
respectability. 

Amber always breathed more freely once he left the 
cramping Crescent behind him and turned into the more 
spacious squares and wider echoing streets of Blooms¬ 
bury proper. The houses there had their own air of faded 
gentility, their own pathetic consciousness of a day that 
was done; but there was a distinctive atmosphere, an 
essence of a happier past, a veritable if now vanished 
possession. 

Radnor Crescent had no atmosphere. It never had 
been, it never would be any other than it was; a row of 
skimpy, jerry-built houses, poor in design, mean in exe¬ 
cution, with a pillar-box at the far end of it like a ver¬ 
milion note of exclamation drawing attention to a foolish 
sentence. 

Amber dropped in his letter and wandered on in the 
silent ecstasy which the deep blue wonder of a star- 
pricked sky always induced in him. 

The moon was high, small, remote, the outlines of 
houses cut sharply black against the blue. Now and 
again a prowling cat crossed the pools of moonlight and 
lost itself immediately in the blackness of the shadows 
beyond. 

Once in a way a yellow-eyed taxi purred quietly past, 
like some greater cat straying from the adjoining jungle 
that was London. 

Amber wandered on until he found himself in Regency 
Square. The windows of the tall old houses around him 
showed rims of gold where the light within outlined 
drawn blinds, or glowing orange squares where windows 
had been left uncurtained. From one came the sound of 
a gramophone: a gay Neapolitan canzcmetta that held the 
warm pagan South in its lilt: from another the tinkle of 
an old piano on which firm masculine fingers thrummed 
out rag-time. 


MOONLIGHT 


17 


Amber crossed the road to the Square garden, and, 
holding the railings, peered within. 

The bare trees loomed above him in masses of tangled 
tracery in which, as he looked upwards, the stars seemed 
to be caught. The trim walks, the sooty shrubs, the 
thrusting iris-spears in the dim borders, the moon-lit 
spaces, the depths of velvet darkness, all were touched 
by the magic of night to a mystery unknown by day. 

As Amber gazed, a movement near the railings at right 
angles to him caught his eye, and reminded him of the 
story of the homeward-bound club-man who, seeing a 
scarlet lantern bobbing about among the trees of his own 
square, concluded that some one was looking for some lost 
possession and went to offer his assistance. The pale 
lady who owned the Chinese lantern had met such 
banality with scorn. 

“ Can’t you see that I am trying to create an atmos¬ 
phere?” she demanded superbly. 

Amber smiled at the recollection. “ I rather wish it 
had been my fate to encounter that atmospheric intel¬ 
lectual. And yet, I don’t know, after all, that I want to 
meet pseudo Romance in the mask of a poseuse. Dear 
old Nanetty and her promises! And I didn’t make any 
in the end. . . . The big thing. The real thing. Is 

it for me, I wonder? How many thousands live and die 
without ever even touching the fringe of it? Could I ever 
love some one so that it hurt. Nanetty . . . mother. 

. . . Ah, but that’s different! . . . Yes, I could. 

I know I could. . . But am I myself big enough? 

I don’t know. All I want at present is to grasp life with 
both hands, to give, to worship, to breathe free air, to 
discover daily the miracle of the commonplace. Is that 
too much to ask? It’s a good deal after all, if one comes 
to analyze all that it implies.” 

Something moved again by the farther railings, a gleam 
of white, a darkness. Yule Amber’s attention was 
definitely caught by this time. It seemed to his quickened 


18 


MARSH LIGHTS 


perceptions that it was not an ordinary or an accountable 
movement. The white gleam fluttered once more like a 
signal, a summons, and was still. 

Suddenly he felt as if some call of the spirit reached 
him, some agonized appeal for aid, though no sound was 
audible. It was as if some one or something had pulled 
at his heart-strings. So definite was the sensation that 
he turned and set off along the pavement at a pace which 
quickened almost to a run to meet, for the first time in 
his life, Romance without a mask! 

IV 

A girl crouched by the railings, her ungloved hands 
still clinging to the iron bars. The light from the distant 
gas-lamp detached the whiteness of them, of her face and 
of her dress from the darkness of her fur coat, which 
melted inconspicuously into the back-ground of shadow. 

Her disordered hair was dusky and abundant. Her 
eyes were like pools of blackness in the pallor of her face. 
They searched Yule’s as he bent over her, with the calm 
acquiescence of despair. 

“ I don’t believe I can go a step farther,” she said 
tonelessly. 

“ Where do you want to go to?” asked Yule, as gently 
as one would of a child. She seemed to him at that 
moment only a child who must not be frightened at any 
cost, so young she looked, so tired. 

“ Bed, more than anything else.” She sighed and 
closed her eyes. Her lashes lay black against cheeks 
whose whiteness alarmed Yule. 

“ Shall I try to find a taxi for you?” he asked. 

“ Oh, no, no. I haven’t anywhere to go.” 

“ How is that? Have you no home?” 

“ Not now.” She shuddered and closed her eyes 
again. 

“Your people-” he began tentatively. 



MOONLIGHT 


19 


“ I have no people.” 

“ What brings you here, then?” 

She shuddered again, but said nothing. Amber felt 
puzzled. 

Here was a young girl, richly dressed — he was sud¬ 
denly aware of the glimmer of pearls at her throat and 
the sparkle of silver brocaded shoes — wandering alone 
in a Bloomsbury Square, confessing to having no home, 
no people, and nowhere to go to. 

What was the key to the enigma. 

“ Have you any money?” he asked simply, quite un¬ 
aware of the sinister implications which might be read 
into such a question. 

The girl was too exhausted by fatigue and emotion to 
be suspicious. She answered with an echo of his own 
frankness, “ No. I forgot to bring away my purse.” 

“ Did you run away from home?” 

“ I told you I had no home.” 

“ From the place where you lived, then?” he pursued, 
with the same deliberate gentleness. 

“ Yes.” The soft young lips set themselves in a sud¬ 
denly implacable line. 

“ Would you like me to take you back there?” 

“ I am never going back.” 

“ Why not?” 

“ You can’t go back to a place that has been destroyed 
by an earthquake.” 

“ Was that what happened?” 

“ Yes. Everything is ruined, defiled-” she broke 

off and looked around her as though she had suddenly 
awakened to a sense of her surroundings. “ What place 
is this?” 

“ Regency Square, Bloomsbury.” 

“Bloomsbury? Why, that’s miles from Hampstead, 
isn’t it?” she cried. 

“ Miles,” he agreed. “ Have you walked here from 
Hampstead?” 



20 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ I suppose I must have. I don’t remember. When I 

ran out of the house-” she stopped again and looked 

up at Yule. “ What am I to do?” 

“ I don’t know,” he answered rather helplessly. “ I 
could take you to an hotel, of course, but it might look 
rather odd. . . . It’s late, you know, and you’ve got 

no luggage and no-” he stopped abruptly. 

If only Nanetty were here she would know what to 
do, what to advise. Suddenly light dawned. Why, the 
only thing to do, of course, was to take her to Nanetty. 
It was an inspiration. 

The girl was regarding him impersonally. 

“ Are you married?” she began. “ Do you-?” 

“ I—am a widower,” Yule interposed hastily, with a 
swift inward smile both at his haste and his sudden rec¬ 
ognition of the respectability of his state. “ I live quite 
close to this with an older cousin—practically a sister— 
who looks after me. If you will trust me sufficiently to 
come back with me she will look after you, too.” With 
a little glow of pleasure at his own common-sense, he 
remembered the range fire and the consequent hot water. 
“ She will get you a hot bath and put you to bed at 
once.” 

“ That sounds heavenly,” said the girl with a long 
weary sigh. “ A hot bath and bed ... to sleep the 
clock round . . . and to forget. . . . Help me 

up, please.” 

Yule unclasped her stiffened fingers from the railings 
and gently pulled the girl to her feet. She swayed towards 
him. He put his arm round her to save her from falling 
and she leaned against him with another long sigh of utter 
fatigue. A thrill ran through him as her head dropped 
on his shoulder and her hair brushed against his cheek. 
Its faint elusive perfume stirred his senses to a sudden 
tumult. 

What wine was at his lips? He had scarcely time to 
savour the exquisite disturbance of the sensation when the 





MOONLIGHT 


21 


heavy tread of approaching feet obtruded itself on his 
consciousness. 

“ Could you pull yourself together a bit?” he said. 
“ Lean on me and try to look as if you belonged to me. 
A policeman is coming and I don’t want to rouse his 
suspicions.” 

“ Of what could he suspect you?” asked the girl 
wearily, raising her head, and pulling up her coat round 
her neck. 

Yule had no desire to enlighten her. 

“ Both by duty and inclination they are a suspicious 
race,” he returned as lightly as he could. “ That’s good, 
just make one effort, and we’ll be at my house in a few 
minutes. If I put my arm round you would it be a help?” 

“ Perhaps,” answered the girl tonelessly. 

With quickened pulses Yule slipped his arm about her, 
and half-supported, half-carried her along the pavement. 
In a moment the policeman passed them with no more 
than a glance. 

Two lovers in the moonlight, lingering in the quietude 
of Regency Square. There was nothing suspicious in that. 
It was a sight which might be seen any night. 

Yule breathed a little breath of relief as the sound of 
the heavy responsible footsteps faded into silence. He 
had no wish to be accused of an abduction. Yet, even in 
that moment he knew that his was the desire of primitive 
man, and that underneath his chivalrous longing to com¬ 
fort and succour the helpless girl, lay a wilder longing 
to snatch her up, throw her over his shoulder and flee with 
her to some fastness among the mountains. 

“ This is red-blooded man with a vengeance!” he 
thought. “ You cad, pull yourself together. The little 
thing trusts you like a child.” 

The girl dragged her feet across the road beside him 
unconscious of anything but her own fatigue and misery. 
Yule was no more to her than a helping hand stretched 
out through the darkness that had enveloped her. He was 


22 


MARSH LIGHTS 


impersonal, sexless as an angel. It seemed to her that 
she had been walking painfully by his side for years. The 
throbbing of her swollen feet became almost intolerable, 
obliterating for the moment her mental anguish. She 
stopped. 

“ I can’t go any farther.” 

He tried to coax her. “ It is only a few steps. See, 
here is the pillar-box at the end of the Crescent. My 
house is about half way up.” 

“ I can’t — I can’t-” Her voice dragged as her 

weary steps had done. Her body drooped and sagged 
towards him. 

“ Then I must carry you,” said Yule, stooping and lift¬ 
ing her with an effort. 

He was slight of physique and little if anything over 
the average height, and the girl, though young and slim, 
lay a dead weight in his arms. Yet his heart sang and he 
was unconscious of the effort or the bracing of his taut 
muscles as he carried his burden up the remaining strip 
of pavement that lay between him and his destination. 
The other houses were still and lightless. They watched 
him with blank eyes. The gate of his own was ajar. He 
pushed it open with his foot and entered, pausing at the 
hall door. 

“ Can you stand for a moment? I’ve got to find my 
latch-key.” 

“ Yes.” She slipped from his arms and stood shivering 
as she waited for him to open the door. 

His hand trembled as he fumbled for the latch. His 
arms seemed cold and strangely empty without her. He 
did not know what had happened to him. 

The gas-jet in the hall was still alight. It bubbled 
curiously within its pink and green glass lantern making 
the shadows flicker. Yule put his arm round the girl 
again and half-led, half-carried her into the dining-room, 
where he placed her in one of the saddle-bag armchairs 
near the now cold fireplace. 



MOONLIGHT 


23 


“ Are you comfortable? Do you mind if I leave you 
for a minute? I’m only going to fetch Nanetty.” 

The girl sighed. “ I shall be all right.” 

Yule ran out into the hall and up the narrow stairs 
two steps at a time. 

“Nanetty! Nanetticoat!” he called excitedly. “I 
want you.” 

Nanetty, candle in hand, ran out of her bedroom, her 
dull blue dressing-gown hastily wrapped around her, her 
red hair falling over her shoulders in two thick plaits, her 
face sharp with anxiety. 

“ What is it? What has happened, Yule?” she cried. 

“ I’ve found a girl, dreadfully tired and frightened, 
with nowhere to go. I didn’t know what to do with her, 
so I brought her here to you. I knew you’d know.” 

“ A girl?” For a moment something seemed to clutch 
Nanetty’s heart and give it a quick little squeeze. Then 
Yule’s trust, his absolute childlike confidence in her made 
its never-failing appeal. So had it been from his baby 
days: broken toy, cut finger, maimed bird or beast had 
always been brought to Nanetty — he knew that she 
would know what to do, dear helpless Quixote! . . . 

“ Where is she? What have you done with her?” 

“ I left her in an armchair in the dining-room. I 
thought a hot bath and bed as soon as possible-” 

“ But where is she to sleep? She must have my 
bed-” 

“No, no, she must have mine. I can sleep anywhere, 
on the couch, in a chair — it doesn’t matter.” 

“ Is she young?” 

“ Little more than a child. Come and see her for your¬ 
self.” 

As Nanetty followed him downstairs she had a sudden 
remembrance of his promise to come in as quietly as pos¬ 
sible lest he should disturb her. Her lips curved to a 
questioning smile as she wondered what maimed thing he 
had brought to her now. He had never brought anything 



24 


MARSH LIGHTS 


but his clothes to Amy to mend. It was Nanetty who had 
always taken charge of his spiritual rags and tatters, 
except during the three arid years of his marriage. The 
thought warmed her now. 


V 


“ Light the gas, Yule.” 

The quick spurt of a match transformed the quiet dusk 
of the room to an almost garish brilliance of hard red 
walls, light oak furniture, red and blue carpet and saddle¬ 
bag covered chairs. 

Nanetty caught her breath when she saw the girl in the 
armchair. Her beautifully-shaped head lay like a flower- 
bud against the bright hues of the velvet, the pallor of her 
softly-curved cheek was like a magnolia petal, the hands 
that drooped by her side in helpless fatigue were like un¬ 
curling lilies. 

Only flower-similes flashed through Nanetty’s mind as 
she gazed in astonishment at Yule’s trove. 

She had visioned some waif of the streets, poor, help¬ 
less, derelict. In her wildest imaginings she had not 
thought of anything so delicate, so exotic to her surround¬ 
ings, as the girl who lay asleep in the chair before her. 
Every detail spoke of luxury, of a standard of living far 
more costly than their own. Nanetty’s shrewd grey eyes 
took in the rich simplicity of the girl’s attire: the fur 
coat, the plainly-cut white evening frock with its silver 
girdle, the silk stockings and silver brocaded shoes, the 
glimmer of pearls on a neck no less white and round than 
they. 

“ What have we here?” she thought in quick dismay. 

Yet surely innocence dwelt in the rounded curves of 
that young cheek and throat, and purity in the soft lips, 
red still with the red of childhood, fresh and dewy. As 
if the unspoken aspersion had suddenly touched her, 
the girl opened her eyes. 


MOONLIGHT 


25 


Such eyes Nanetty had never seen: large, liquid, brown 
as pansies or bog-streams: dark and tragic now in their 
appeal, as she gazed around her, startled. 

“ Oh, where am I? Where am I?” she cried wildly, 
shaken with an uncontrollable tremor. 

In an instant Nanetty had taken the fluttering hands in 
hers. This was no time for comment or conjecture. The 
moment for action had come. 

“ It’s all right. You are with friends,” she said in a 
brisk reassuring tone. “ Yule, put the kettle on the 
gas-ring and make some bovril. The jar is on the kitchen 
dresser. Then fill a hot-water bottle.” 

Yule, thankful for the necessity for action, flew to do 
her bidding. Nanetty went to the over-ornate side¬ 
board, took out a small bottle of brandy, put a little into 
a glass, added some water to it and took it over to the 
shivering girl. 

“ Drink this as medicine. It will help to pull you 
together.” 

As the girl drank, the glass tinkled against her teeth. 
She coughed at the fiery taste of the liquid, gulped, and 
made a little face as she finished it. 

“Thank you,” she said as she handed back the glass to 
Nanetty. 

The stimulant appeared to take instant effect. Life 
seemed to flow back into face and limbs as she leaned 
back in the armchair, closing and unclosing her hands. 

“ I’m awfully tired,” she said childishly. 

“ I know. Do you feel as if you would like a bath or 
would you rather go straight to bed?” 

“ I’d rather go straight to bed, please. I believe I 
should fall asleep in a bath.” 

“ Can you get upstairs all right, or shall I call Yule 
to come and help you?” asked Nanetty. 

The girl did not move. “ What did you say his name 
was?” 

“ Yule — Yule Amber.” 


26 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“And yours?” 

“ Annette Cotes.” 

From Nanetty’s silence it dawned on the girl that some¬ 
thing was expected of her. 

“ Oh, mine — mine is Jessamy Wyatt,” she said sud¬ 
denly. “ Then you’re not his wife?” 

“ No. His cousin.” A swift red sprang to Nanetty’s 
cheek as if the question had flicked her. 

“ His cousin. . . . Ah, I remember. He said 

that. He told me that he was a widower. . . . How 

stupid of me!” 

Nanetty stared. . . . How odd of Yule to have 

told this strange girl that he was a widower! What on 
earth had he meant by it? Was it with some extraordi¬ 
nary idea of reassuring her, or what had been his motive 
for such an apparently unnecessary disclosure? With 
all her knowledge of him she felt for the moment puzzled. 

“ Let me help you up to bed,” she suggested. “ You 
will enjoy the bovril more when you are comfortably 
settled.” 

“ Bed is the one thing I want at present,” sighed the 
girl. “I am too tired even to think — thank God!” 
The last two words shot out with sudden passion. 

“ Don’t attempt to think,” ordered Nanetty whimsi¬ 
cally. “ Half the mischief in the world is done by think¬ 
ing at the wrong time. Let me get you into bed. You’ll 
have to put up with one of my night-dresses.” 

“ It will do quite well,” answered the girl tunelessly. 

Nanetty cast a quick glance at her as she slipped an 
arm round her and helped her to rise. 

“ The girl must be suffering from some severe mental 
shock,” she thought, “to accept this most unusual situa¬ 
tion as a matter of course. Spoilt, too, probably. The 
spoilt child takes everything for granted. Well, spoilt or 
not, the only thing is to get her into bed now. To-morrow 
we may be able to straighten things out.” 

She kept her arm about Jessamy as they squeezed out 


MOONLIGHT 27 

through the narrow door and went up the steep stairs 
together. 

“ Is that bovril ready yet, Yule?” she asked as they 
passed the kitchen door. 

“ Not yet. The kettle seems determined not to boil,” 
he answered anxiously. “ Can I help you?” 

“ No. Don’t desert the kettle,” Nanetty ordered. 

In spite of her reasonable outlook on life she felt a 
faint prick of annoyance at the girl’s utter apathy, her 
cool acceptance of all that was being done for her. 

“ I shan’t get out fresh sheets,” she thought. “ Yule’s 
are quite good enough for her.” 

She hardened her heart as the girl let her undress her 
and even held out her feet to have shoes and stockings 
removed. Jessamy Wyatt sat, dumb, on the edge of the 
bed as Nanetty slipped her own night-gown over her bare 
white shoulders. She seemed to have no modesty, no 
proper consciousness of her surroundings. Her great eyes 
stared into vacancy with a look of utter misery that 
tugged at Nanetty’s heart-strings in spite of herself. 

She turned down the bed-clothes and, stooping, lifted 
the girl’s feet on to the bed; holding her then with one 
hand while with the other she slipped the pillow to a 
more comfortable angle under her head. It was as she 
bent to perform this kind action that Jessamy pushed 
her head against her shoulder as a child might and 
rubbed one soft cheek against Nanetty’s thin one. 

“ You are good to me,” she whispered, trembling. “ I 
— I — I — it almost makes me believe in God again — 
but how can I? How can I?” 

She broke into a wild sobbing that racked her. 

“ There, there!” soothed Nanetty, gathering her into 
comforting arms. “ He’s always there, bless you, whether 
you believe in Him or not!” 


28 


MARSH LIGHTS 


VI 

“ Her name is Jessamy Wyatt, Yule, and that’s all 
I can tell you about her at present, except that she’s suf¬ 
fering from some dreadful shock or disillusionment, poor 
child.” 

“ She has run away from the people she lived with 
because an earthquake destroyed everything,” Yule 
answered. “ There’s tragedy in this, Nanetty.” 

He was sitting on the edge of the kitchen-table, swing¬ 
ing his foot to and fro. His eyes were curiously bright: 
there was a new mental alertness about him, an impression 
of quickened vitality. 

“ Perhaps,” Nanetty acquiesced, suddenly conscious of 
the fatigue which she had forgotten in the hour’s excite¬ 
ment. “ But tragedy is a big word, Yule. She’s very 
young and youth is extraordinarily resilient. Whatever 
it is, she is bound to get over it.” 

For the first time Nanetty seemed to Yule Amber 
middle-aged and inelastic of mind. He was conscious of 
a queer mixture of feelings. He did not want this girl 
— Jessamy Wyatt! What a delicious name, like a 
flower, so like her! — to endure tragedy, of course: still 
he had no desire that her feelings, her sufferings should 
be belittled by any one, even Nanetty. It was odd what 
a hot, pricking feeling disturbed him at the thought. He 
said nothing but drummed boyishly with his heel against 
the leg of the table. 

“ Is there any boiling water in the kettle?” asked 
Nanetty suddenly. “ I yearn for a cup of tea. Tea at un¬ 
orthodox times is the most delicious thing in the world.” 

“ Let me make it for you.” Yule, with a quick gust 
of penitence, slid to the floor with that new youthful 
alertness of his. “ Poor old Nanetticoat, you must be 
half dead. Ill boil up the kettle again. It won’t take 
a minute.” 

Nanetty leaned against the hard wooden back of the 
Windsor chair and watched him. It was rather nice to be 


MOONLIGHT 


29 


waited on for once. She let Yule fuss over her, fetch cup 
and saucer, milk and sugar, sensing with an intuition 
which was hers in all that concerned him, that his atten¬ 
tions were somehow tinged with penitence, for what real 
or imaginary failing towards her she could not yet 
fathom. 

He refused gaily to share her tea. 

“ I mustn’t mix my liquors,” he said. 

“ Have you been drinking something else?” she asked, 
but without real curiosity, for she knew her Yule. 

“ Yes ” 

“ What?” 

“ The wine of spring. I had deep draughts of it in 
Regency Square. When April comes we’ll go to Kew 
together and intoxicate ourselves with the smell of lilac.” 
He stopped abruptly. . . . When April comes? 

. . . But hadn’t April come already? Wasn’t there a 

stir of sap in the trees, a rush of buds to the branches, 
a singing of birds, a great scent of Spring in the air, a 
delicious troubling of the senses? The lovely disquiet of 
April rather than the first sharp challenge of March? 

“Lilac!” echoed Nanetty with a sigh. “Lilac is the 
one smell that always makes me feel as if I had an 
immortal soul and hadn’t really sold it to old Brand!” 

“ But you haven’t.” 

“ Of course I haven’t, silly.” She rose, pushing back 
her cup. “ That was very reviving. Leave the things 
there till the morning, Yule. I’m going to bed now. 
Where will you sleep?” 

“ I shan’t sleep at all, probably. I feel far too much 
alive. I think I’ll go out and bay the moon again.” 

“ Please don’t,” exclaimed Nanetty sharply. “ I 
shan’t sleep if you do for thkiking of what you may bring 
in next time.” 

Yule laughed. “Poor old Nanetticoat! I shan’t go 
out, then. Off with you in earnest this time. It must be 
nearly tomorrow.” 


30 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ It is,” said Nanetty. “ Goodnight, Yule.” 

“ Goodnight, old thing.” 

When she had gone Yule Amber stood looking at the 
faint red spark that still lingered in the kitchen range. 
It gleamed dully among a few grey cinders and black 
films of paper. As he looked he felt a sudden queer little 
glow of satisfaction that he had not let Nanetty burn 
Amy’s letters, that he had burned them himself, that 
they were safely and completely destroyed before — 
what? 

He took up the poker, thrust it through the bars and 
stirred the flakes of paper until they fell apart and 
crumbled into feathery ash. 

Then he washed up Nanetty’s cup and saucer and put 
away teapot and kettle, still with that vague sense of 
penitence of which she had been dimly aware; that new 
half-acknowledged feeling that he should make every¬ 
thing as easy for her as possible — why? 

He refused for the moment to look the question fairly 
in the face, and trying to elude it fell asleep in the saddle¬ 
bag chair, his head resting where Jessamy’s had lain, his 
nostrils keen for the faint elusive scent of her hair. 

So Nanetty found him when she came down in the 
morning. 

VII 

“ You’re not to worry her with questions, Nanetty. 
Let her tell us as much or as little as she likes. She is 
our guest, remember.” Yule looked at his cousin across 
the breakfast-table, very much the man of the house. 

It was an attitude which Nanetty encouraged, but 
which Amy had always resented. She had liked to man¬ 
age everything herself. 

Nanetty’s mouth went up now at one corner. So did 
one dark-red eyebrow. It was a quaint mannerism of hers 
when uncertain of her ground. 

“ That’s all very well, my dear boy. But what are we 


MOONLIGHT 


31 


to do with her? You don’t propose to adopt the girl, 
do you?” 

“ Don’t be absurd,” said Yule, flushing. “ Can’t we 
shelter a homeless girl for a few days without your mak¬ 
ing these ridiculous suggestions?” 

How unusually touchy he was! . . . But Nanetty 

did not mean to stand any nonsense. Her way was to 
face any problem fair and square, and tackle it without 
any unnecessary bush-beating. 

“ They happen to be most inconvenient days,” she 
returned. “ Don’t forget that we are going to Caroline 
Place to-day to-” 

“ We can’t go. Things must remain as they are until 
we move in on Friday. Once there we can take our own 
time to arrange ” 

“ Do you mean this Miss Wyatt to come with us, 
then?” Nanetty cut in. 

“ Of course, if she wants to,” said Yule quickly. 
“ Surely you don’t want to turn the poor child out into 
the street again. It isn’t like you to be so inhospitable, 
Nanetty.” 

Nanetty laughed. She would not let herself get an¬ 
noyed with him. 

“ Really you are the most ridiculously quixotic person 
in the world, Yule! You’re a survival, an anachronism. 
You ought to be in a glass case in a museum.” 

“ Because I want to give shelter to a lost child for a 
few days? A nice opinion you must have of the world 
in general.” 

“ Jessamy Wyatt is not a child. If she were, the 
problem would have solved itself.” 

“ I don’t see that there is any problem. When she 

wakes- Don’t you think you ought to go up again, 

Nanetty, in case she might be awake now?” 

“ I’ve been in to her three times already. I am going 
to finish my breakfast before I go up again,” said Nanetty 
firmly. 





32 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ But if she woke and were frightened-?” 

“ What could there possibly be to frighten her in that 
most banal room of yours?” Nanetty demanded. 

Yule moved the butter-dish. “ It’s strange to her. 
. . . She may not remember where she is. . . . 

My things are about — she mightn’t understand.” 

“ Oh, very well, then.” Nanetty pushed back her 
chair and rose impatiently. 

Yule watched her as she went through the door. . . . 
Poor Nanetty, her deformity was very apparent in her 
morning overall! It was frightfully hard lines on a 
woman to be made like that. Why weren’t they all slim 
and round and beautiful as flowers? ... It seemed 
unnecessarily cruel. . . . 

He held his breath at the click of the opening door 
upstairs and listened for the sound of Nanetty’s footsteps 
tip-toeing across the room towards the bed. There was a 
pause. ... If only he could have looked over 
Nanetty’s shoulder at that innocent sleeping loveliness. 
. . . It wasn’t like Nanetty to be so unsympathetic, 

so material. She had hitherto always aided and abetted 
him in his whims and impulses. Why did she make all 
these stupid objections now? It did not occur to him 
that this was the first time that his Quixotisms had in¬ 
cluded a beautiful young woman. 

The footsteps creaked back again. The door clicked 
behind Nanetty, who came rather heavily down the stairs. 

“ Well?” said Yule eagerly, as she entered. 

“ She’s still asleep. . . . Yule, she’s not of our 

class.” 

“Not of our class? What do you mean?” His tone 
was hot. He fired at the faintest imputation. 

“ Just what I say. She’s not a worker, as we are. 
She belongs to the idle rich.” 

“ How do you know?” 

“ Blind bat, didn’t you see her clothes? Didn’t you 
see her hands? Those hands have never done any harder 



MOONLIGHT 


33 


work than dressing her own beautiful person and arrang¬ 
ing her own beautiful hair — if, indeed, she hadn’t a maid 
to do it for her.” 

Yule drew a long breath. “ I’m glad you think her 
beautiful,” he said simply. 

Nanetty glanced sharply at him. . . . What on 

earth did it matter to him whether she considered Jessamy 
Wyatt beautiful or not? The girl could not possibly 
mean anything to him — yet. What she might come to 
mean — Nanetty bit her lip. What complication had 
been suddenly thrust into their quietly-ordered lives? She 
must walk warily. Yule must feel that he had her behind 
him in this as in all other things, no matter what it 
cost her. After all, it was her attitude towards him that 
counted, not his towards her. She must never fail him. 

“ We both love beauty, I think,” said Nanetty rather 
low. “ We both want to live beautifully. It’s rather 
hard sometimes, when things and people are pettily wor¬ 
rying, but — we’ll follow our star, Yule, you and I, what¬ 
ever happens.” 

There was a moment’s pause. Yule’s eyes glowed and 
his hands shot across the table. 

“ I knew I could trust you, old thing,” he said huskily. 

Nanetty felt rather apprehensively as their fingers 
gripped that she was suddenly committed to some course 
of action of which she was still in complete ignorance. 

VIII 

" Then it’s not a dream!” said Jessamy Wyatt, look¬ 
ing with great sleep-dazed eyes round the strange little 
room. 

On the bamboo dressing-table stood in unfriendly 
juxtaposition some cheap silver-mountad toilet accesso¬ 
ries, a pink-frilled pincushion and a man’s hair-brushes. 
A man’s coat hung on the door, and a pair of trousers lay 
across the back of a chair near the pink-curtained win- 


34 


MARSH LIGHTS 


dow. Masculine boots and shoes stood beneath the 
dressing-table and a man’s fawn-coloured dressing-gown 
hung over the brass rail of the bedstead. 

A rose-flowered eiderdown was drawn up over the big 
double bed which occupied most of the space in the little 
room and in which many a night Yule Amber had lain 
unhappily awake, rigid lest he should touch the sleeping 
Amy, from whom he had no valid reason for separating, 
yet from whose contact every fibre shrank at times. 

“ No, it’s not a dream,” said Nanetty. “ It’s quite a 
friendly reality. I hope you are feeling rested.” 

Jessamy did not answer. Her thoughts had flown 
elsewhere. She had suddenly remembered what the kind¬ 
ness of sleep had momentarily obliterated. “ Then it’s 
all true! . . . All! . . . Oh, my God!” 

She turned and buried her face in the pillow, her frame 
shaken with a long shudder. 

Nanetty stood silent for a moment, shrinking from the 
possible rushing in of the fool. Then she laid a thin, 
kindly hand on the shaking shoulder. 

“ Do you think you can tell me anything about it?” 
she asked gently. “ Perhaps I might be able to help 
you.” 

“ No one can help me. No one ... no one!” 

“ That’s not quite true, you know. Yule and I have 
helped you already. We may be able to help you again.” 

The quiet common sense of this penetrated the girl’s 
absorption in her own emotion. 

“ You have been very kind,” she murmured. 

“ Oh, we don’t want thanks,” said Nanette brusquely. 
“ You’ll feel better able to face life again when you’ve 
had your breakfast. How do you like your egg boiled?” 

The absolute banality of the question in comparison 
with the forces that were rending her soul twitched an 
unexpected smile to Jessamy’s lips. To be asked how 
one liked one’s egg boiled when one was bemoaning a 
world in ruins, and suffering the bitterest disillusionment 


MOONLIGHT 


35 


a young girl could experience! As if that mattered! As 
if anything but her own trouble mattered! But it seemed 
to matter to this most matter-of-fact person, who stood 
quietly by the bedside awaiting an answer to her silly 
question. 

“ Three or five minutes?” asked Nanetty impatiently. 
She wanted to turn the girl’s mind back to the trivialities 
of normal life again, and what could possibly be more 
normal than a boiled egg? 

Jessamy Wyatt laughed hysterically. “ I don’t know. 
I don’t care. I don’t think I’ve eaten a boiled egg in 
my life.” 

“ Would you rather have it poached, then?” 

How persistent the creature was! . . . Jessamy felt 
half-hysterical. 

“ Yes. No. I really don’t care.” 

“ Then I’ll poach it for you. It’ll be lighter, perhaps.” 

“ Why should you do it? Can’t the cook-” 

“ I am the cook, alas!” Nanetty admitted with a sigh. 
“ I am one of the painful, not the born variety. I burn 
my fingers in the kitchen when I would much rather 

be-” she was going to say “ painting ” when some 

sudden inexplicable impulse prompted her to substitute 
— “ doing something else.” 

“ Have you no cook, then?” 

“No maid of any kind, except a char-woman, Mrs. 
Daylight, who comes and goes as the spirit moves her. 
We are rather a trial to her, I fancy. She thinks we 
are queer people to be living in ‘ a nice little ’ouse like 
this!’ But we aren’t. It’s the house which is wrong, 
not us.” 

“ What’s wrong with it?” 

“ Everything,” answered Nanetty with a comprehen¬ 
sive gesture of contempt. “ Can’t you see?” 

“ I’ve scarcely looked yet.” 

“ Well, this won’t get your breakfast. I’m sorry.” 
Nanetty made a sudden exit. 




36 


MARSH LIGHTS 


When she had gone Jessamy lay back on her rather 
hard pillow, her mind lightly hooked to the last sugges¬ 
tion. ... Of course the house was all wrong. It was a 
dreadful little house. It had a mean, cheap pretentious¬ 
ness. . . . Yet the boots under the dressing-table were 
well cut, if shabby. The hair-brushes were quite good: 
ebony with a silver initial. She did not know that they 
had been Nanetty’s wedding-present to Yule. The 
dressing-gown across the bed-rail was camel’s-hair— 
quite a decent dressing-gown. 

Suddenly the significance of the room’s masculinity 
dawned upon her. 

“ This must be his room,” she thought. “ I wonder 
why they put me here. Surely they must have a spare 
room. Perhaps not, though, if they’ve no maid. What 
a poky little place!” She looked round her again. 
“ Those appalling toilet things and pincushions must 
have belonged to the late wife. The other woman doesn’t 
look pink and frilly, poor thing. How dreadful it must 
be to be made like that! . . . Yet it may have saved her 
a lot!” thought Jessamy with a deep shuddering sigh. 

If only she knew what to do, where to turn, how best 
to burn her boats so that she should be severed com¬ 
pletely and absolutely from her former life. She was 
pondering the question feverishly, her thoughts going 
round and round like a squirrel in a cage, when Nanetty 
came in with her breakfast, bringing with her, her usual 
atmosphere of clear common sense. 

“ You will be chilly without something over your 
shoulders.” 

In a moment she had fetched an old China crepe shawl, 
whose white ground was gaily embroidered in impossible 
birds and flowers, and wrapped it round the girl. 

“ Now you look like a princess in a fairy-tale,” she 
said. 

Jessamy smiled wanly. It was rather an unexpected 
remark from the matter-of-fact person. But Nanetty 


MOONLIGHT 37 

was to astonish her still further before she had done with 
her. 

“ Eat your breakfast while it’s hot,” she commanded. 
“ My cousin is anxious to know how you are and if you 
feel really rested. He asks me to beg of you to consider 
this house your own for as long as it is convenient to you 
to honour it with your presence.” 

Jessamy looked up at her wonderingly. 

“ Is your cousin a real person or does he belong to the 
‘ Arabian Nights?’ There is more than a touch of the 
East in hospitality like that.” 

Nanetty returned her glance with a new interest added 
to her usual shrewdness. . . . The girl was intelligent, 
then, not merely the pretty, spoilt child she had imagined 
her. 

“ Yule is real enough, even if at times-” she broke 

off. “ I often tell him that he is an anachronism. So 
he is, but I wish that there were more like him.” 

“ You’ve both been awfully kind to me,” said Jessamy. 

“ I don’t know what I should have done-” she cast 

a frightened look at her muddy silver slippers and the 
white marocain frock that lay on the chair near the bed. 

“ Don’t think of that now, but finish your breakfast. 
You’re all right here. You must have got a bad shock 
to make you run away like that, without money or even 
a change of clothing.” 

The girl paled and shuddered. 

“ Yes,” she whispered. il My one thought was to get 
away from it all as quickly as I could.” 

“ Poor child! . . .Yule said I wasn’t to ask you any 
questions, so I shan’t.” 

“ Do you always do what he tells you?” 

“No. Not always.” Nanetty smiled whimsically. 
“ I am obeying only in the letter now, not in the 
spirit, for I think that if you could bring yourself to 
speak of — of your cataclysm, it would probably do you 
good.” 




38 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“Would it? . . . Could I? . . Jessamy looked at 
Nanetty with the questioning wonder of a child. 

“ How old are you?” asked Nanetty bluntly. 

“ Twenty-two.” 

“ Not really? I thought you were about eighteen.” 

“ I’ve led a very sheltered life. I have had only one 
big sorrow before now—my father’s death.” Her lips 
quivered. “ Though I really lost him when-” 

Nanetty picked up the tray. “ I’ll come back in a 
minute. Then you can tell me as much or as little as 
you like.” 

When Nanetty returned Jessamy was sitting up in 
bed. A faint colour burned in her cheeks awakening her 
almost to loveliness. Her great eyes held appeal in 
their depth: her hands twisted nervously together. Nan¬ 
etty saw her sudden beauty with a tinge of — was it 
alarm? 

“If Yule only saw her now-!” was her swift 

thought. On its heels came a quick sense of relief that 
he did not. 

“ You’ll have to be content with an outline.” said 
Jessamy. “ I can’t tell you names or details yet. I — 
it’s awfully hard to put it into words at all.” 

“ Tell me as much or as little as you like. I’ll try to 
understand.” 


IX 

Jessamy coughed nervously and began without pre¬ 
amble. 

“ My father — I loved him very dearly. We meant a 
lot to each other, especially during my mother’s life¬ 
time. They didn’t get on very well. She was over 
given to good works — a hard Christian. She thought us 
hopelessly trivial and frivolous. Everything we did was 
wrong. Then — after her death — he married — Claire. 
She made him happy. She twisted him round her smooth 



MOONLIGHT 


39 


white little finger. She made me happy, too. I loved 
her. I trusted her — until yesterday. When my father 
died I — I clung to her. It seemed that we had only 
each other. That was over a year ago. Then — there 

was a man- Oh, I can’t go on!” The girl broke off 

and hid a burning face behind hands that shook. 

Nanetty, after a moment, drew a chair closer to the 
bed. She could not stare aloofly at the girl’s misery. 
She had to offer her at least the comfort of a friendly 
human contact. She slipped an arm round the trembling 
shoulders. 

“ I see that he hurt you somehow,” she said gently. 
“ Don’t go on if you’d rather not.” 

“ But I must — I must now,” cried Jessamy wildly. 

“ You’ll be thinking all sorts of things-” She 

grasped and held one of Nanetty’s hands in both hers. 
“ Let me hold your hand while I tell you. It’ll be easier 
that way.” 

Nanetty took her arm away and held out her other 
hand. “ Hold both,” she said. “ Hold on as if to a life¬ 
buoy. I’m giving you all I can of myself.” 

For a moment Jessamy was silent, clutching with fever¬ 
ish fingers at Nanetty’s cool thin hands. It was as if 
their hot fragility drank strength and calmness from the 
older woman’s close clasp. 

“ He — was a friend of Claire’s. He had come to the 
house sometimes before Daddy died. Afterwards he 
came much oftener. He was a good deal older than I, 
but very handsome, very fascinating. I — he — we — 
fell in love. At least, I thought he did. ... I know I 
did. I — I — can’t tell you how I loved him — how des¬ 
perately— how- Oh, you wouldn’t understand!” 

Nanetty’s clasp slackened, then tightened again. 

“ No?” she queried dryly. 

Why should all other women assume that because she 
was short and crooked of shoulder she must necessarily 
be devoid of a woman’s heart and capacity for love and 





40 


MARSH LIGHTS 


suffering? Her lips twisted behind Jessamy’s bent head. 
What did this child, who thought (in all the ignorant 
arrogance of her youth) that she knew everything, know 
of real love? Her puny childish passion was not love, it 
was probably a mere passing sex attraction, nothing 
more. 

The girl went on incoherently. 

“To love some one so that it hurts-” 

Nanetty started. . . . “So that it hurts?” . . . 
Perhaps she did know something after all. 

“ So that it hurts,” Jessamy continued feverishly. 
“To feel that an hour without him is like a year, a whole 
day without seeing him an immense empty desert: only 
the moments he is with you swift-winged, enchanted. 
When he asked me to marry him the whole world seemed 
wrapped in a rainbow. ... Now it’s grey and black 
and hideous.” 

“Why?” 

“ Because — because-” Jessamy choked, gulped 

and clutched Nanetty’s hands tighter. “ Yesterday he 
was coming to dinner. I dressed early so as to lose no 
moment of him. ... He was in the drawing-room 
talking to Claire. They didn’t see me as I pushed the 
door open. They were absorbed in what they were say¬ 
ing. . . . I — he — it was too dreadful. . . . He — had 
been Claire’s lover. . . . She — didn’t want to marry 
him herself. She loses her money if she marries again. 
. . . I was just — a cat’s-paw. My money — Daddy 
made such a queer will. I have my mother’s three hun¬ 
dred a year in any case. I was to have a thousand a 
year more if I married with Claire’s consent. If I mar¬ 
ried without it before I was twenty-five the money was 
to be hers until she re-married. Then it was either to 
come back to me or go to some hospital. I forget the 
details. It was all so involved. The gist of it is that 
Daddy left me in Claire’s hands until I was twenty- 
five. He — trusted her implicitly. So did I. Until yes- 




MOONLIGHT 


41 


terday. . . . I — I — it seems impossible. But it’s not. 
It’s true . . . it’s hideously true. ... I heard it all. 
I can hear Claire’s low laugh now. . . . ‘ The child will 

make you an excellent wife. She’s wax still, and she 
adores you.’ Oh! I did! I did. And now I feel humili¬ 
ated, shamed, soiled. . . .” She put a burning forehead 
down on the clasped hands and shivered. 

“ Nonsense!” said Nanetty with a brusqueness that 
hid a queer tangle of feelings. “ You’ve done nothing 
dirty. They can’t soil you. You can only soil your¬ 
self. It’s not what they do to you that matters-” 

“ Oh, but it does. It does. They’ve torn up my life by 
the roots. They’ve spoilt everything. I don’t know 
what to do. Where to go.” 

“ You are absolutely independent of them.” 

“ How?” 

“ Haven’t you three hundred a year of your own?” 

“Oh, but I couldn’t live on that, could I?” Jessamy 
opened big eyes of astonishment. 

“ Many people bring up large families on less.” 

“ But I’ve never done any work. I shouldn’t know 
how to be practical or economical,” said Jessamy help¬ 
lessly. 

Nanetty checked an exclamation. She wanted to berate 
the girl as a parasite, a drone . . . but how could one be 
harsh to a drone who looked at you with great wistful 
eyes or a parasite who clung to you with desperate 
young hands? 

“Time you learned,” was all she said. 

“ I know. I know,” cried Jessamy deprecatingly. 
“ But I’ve never had to. I’ve always had people to do 
things for me, to make things easy and pleasant. It 
isn’t my fault, really.” 

“ Not altogether, I suppose. It’s more the fault of the 
silly system you’ve been brought up on-” 

“ Oh, don’t scold me, I can’t bear it!” Jessamy turned 
and burrowed her head into the pillows like a child, 




42 


MARSH LIGHTS 


while a big tear trickled over the round cheek nearest 
Nanetty. “I — I thought you’d have been sorry for 
me.” 

“ But I am sorry for you. Tremendously sorry for 
you,” Nanetty hastened to say. “ It must have been a 
terrible shock for you to find that the two people you 
trusted most had deceived you. Nothing in the world 
could have been more bitter than that. But are you 
quite sure that you’re right about what you’ve told 
me? You’re making a very grave accusation, remem¬ 
ber. Could you have made a mistake, misunder¬ 
stood-?” 

“ There was no possibility of misunderstanding,” 
interrupted Jessamy. “ I heard them — oh, I can’t bear 
to think of it. ... I don’t want ever to see either of 
them again. ... I — I believe I am afraid of Claire. 
She is one of those big, fair, smooth women, with silky 
manners and white skin and pale gold hair. She could 
make you believe almost anything, even against your 
will. I — I know now that I am afraid of her. I — I 
want to burn my boats, to make it impossible ever to 
see her or have anything to do with her again. Can’t you 
help me?” 

“ I don’t quite see how at present.” Nanetty frowned, 
puzzled. “ Perhaps later on I may have an inspiration.” 

“ I feel that I want to slam every door between them 
and me,” cried Jessamy passionately. 

“ The worst of slammed doors is that they sometimes 
jam,” Nanetty reminded her. “ If you want to open 
them later on, you may not be able to.” 

“ I shan’t want to open them ever again.” 

“ You can’t be sure of that.” 

“ But I am; quite, quite sure,” cried the girl child¬ 
ishly. 

Nanetty rose. ... “A hot person and a cold per¬ 
son can’t possibly argue on equal terms on the same 
subject,” she thought. “ Her vision is too clouded, mine, 



MOONLIGHT 


43 


perhaps, too clear, to see this thing in its true per¬ 
spective yet.” 

Jessamy felt the slight chill of the other’s inevitable 
detachment. 

“ There’s such a gulf between us!” she sighed in¬ 
wardly. Then, with a conscious generosity, she thought: 
“ After all, how can middle-age possibly understand what 
only youth can know?” Aloud she said: “ Would you 
please turn on my bath before you go downstairs? I’d 
like to get up.” 

Nanetty swung round and covered her with a strange 
look, half inquiry, half unacknowledged regret. The 
moment of their brief rapport was gone. Vaguely she 
felt as if she had lost something, as if something almost 
within reach had spread iridescent wings and fled. Jes¬ 
samy could not have guessed anything of this from the 
matter-of-fact response. 

“ Do you take a cold bath?” 

Jessamy shuddered. “ Oh, no. I like a nice warm 
one, please.” 

“ Then I’m afraid you can’t have it, for the kitchen 
range isn’t lighted today. 

Jessamy’s fine brows drew together in a pretty puzzled 
frown. “ But what has that to do with it?” It seemed 
absurd that one couldn’t have as much hot water as 
one wanted merely by turning a tap. It had never 
occurred to her to think how such an ordinary necessity 
was obtained. 

“ Merely everything,” Nanetty answered with a queer 
little smile. “ If the kitchen range isn’t lighted there 
can be no hot water. It doesn’t matter to Yule or me. 
We always take cold baths.” 

“How Spartan!” shivered Jessamy. 

“ You’d better rest for a while.” 

“No. I’d rather not, please. I really want to get 
up.” 

“ But what are you going to do when you are up?” 


44 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ I don’t know.” 

“And what are you going to wear?” Nanetty pur¬ 
sued. “ You can’t go about in the daytime in that.” 
She glanced at the silver-girdled frock on the chair. 

“ No, of course not.” Jessamy looked rather as if she 
were going to cry again. 

Something pricked Nanetty. She knew that she was 
not being as nice as she might be to this waif from an 
alien world. She knew that Yule would have insisted 
on lighting the kitchen range immediately his guest 
expressed the faintest desire for a warm bath. She 
knew also, with a hot searing pang, how dangerous even 
to an ordinary man’s peace of mind this young and 
helpless loveliness might be, but to a man of Yule’s 
chivalrous, romantic temperament, how positive a men¬ 
ace! . . . Well, she couldn’t help that. “ But I can help 
failing him now,” she thought. She came a step nearer 
to the bed and spoke quickly. “ I’ll light the fire as soon 
as I go down. I’ll let you know when the water is hot 
enough for a bath. 

“ Oh, thanks. I really must have one.” Jessamy 
saw no concession, nothing but ordinary courtesy. 

“ I can lend you my best dress. It will be too short, 
of course-” 

“ Oh, but I couldn’t possibly wear any one else’s best 
dress.” The mere thought was distasteful. Jessamy 
had made a study of clothes, and she was intensely fas¬ 
tidious. 

“ There’s one of my cretonne overalls, then. Mrs. 
Daylight washed it on Monday.” 

“ That will do beautifully, thanks.” 

When Nanetty had gone Jessamy lay back upon her 
pillows once more, pondering again how best she might 
burn her boats, or slam her doors. 

It was not until she lay in the ugly narrow bath 
from which most of its imitation marble paint had been 
rubbed away that her inspiration came. 



MOONLIGHT 


45 


X 

At sound of Nanetty’s step on the stairs Yule darted 
out into the hall. 

“ Well?” he said eagerly. 

“Well?” echoed Nanetty with a sudden gust of 
annoyance at his eagerness. 

“ How is she? How does she look? How did she 
sleep? Is she more rested, happier?” 

“ Your foundling is sitting up and taking notice,” 
answered Nanetty dryly. “ She has eaten an excellent 
breakfast and now demands a hot bath-” 

“ She can have one whenever she likes. I lit the range 
while you were upstairs — and the deuce of a job I had 
too — but I thought she’d like one.” 

“ You thought quite right.” Nanetty strove for a 
return to friendly normality. 

“ You didn’t bother her with questions, I hope, or tell 
her that we were moving or hint in any way that it was 
inconvenient for us to have her?” 

“ No. And let me reassure you on the latter point, 
Yule. It will never occur to her that it could be incon¬ 
venient for any one to have her anywhere. She takes 
everything for granted. The world is — not exactly her 
oyster — but her footstool and her umbrella, her man¬ 
servant and her maid-servant. In a word, she is, or has 
been, thoroughly spoilt.” 

“ Why do you say has been? Has she told you any¬ 
thing about herself?” 

“ A good deal more than she imagines,” returned 
Nanetty in the same dry tone. “I’d better tell you, too, 
Yule. It will save the necessity of further explana¬ 
tions.” 

“ Do you think she would like me to know?” 

“ Don’t you want to hear?” 

“More than anything in the world, but-” 

“ I don’t think you need have any scruples. She did 
not ask for secrecy. I think you’d better know.” 




46 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ Very well.” 

In a few vivid words Nanetty outlined for him the story 
Jessamy had told her. She saw him react to each phase 
of it as the stillness of a pool reacts to gusts and tremors 
of a fitful breeze. When she had finished he was striding 
about the kitchen, hot, indignant. 

“The cad! The blackguard! I’d like to horse-whip 
him! I will, too, if she’ll only let me. The poor child! 
Poor little desolate thing! Of course she mustn’t go back 
to those people. Of course she must stay with us as long 
as ever she wishes. She has sought sanctuary here. 
We’ll never give her up to those brutes. The woman’s 
just as bad. . . . And if she’s afraid. . . . Oh, 

Nanetty, heaven bless the moon that made me want to be 
a prairie-dog last night! Just imagine what might have 
happened if some one else had found her!” 

Nanetty sank on a chair, half laughing, half remon¬ 
strant. 

“ Dear old boy, do be sensible. Set your wits to work 
and think out some feasible plan for Miss Wyatt. We 
can’t really be responsible for her, you know.” 

“Why not?” cried Yule warmly. 

“ Every why.” 

“ We’re not going to turn her out into the street again, 
if you mean that.” 

“ Certainly not. But there are all sorts of ordinary 
things to be thought of. She must have clothes, toilet 
accessories, money-” 

“ Couldn’t we-” 

“ She has plenty of money of her own, and a rather 
extensive wardrobe, I imagine. Her undergarments are 
of silk, Yule. She strikes me as being a decidedly 
expensive young person.” 

“ Well, what of that? You have a sordid mind, 
Nanetty.” 

“ Probably. Your waif-” Nanetty stopped and 

bit her lip. The last thing she desired was to foster any 




MOONLIGHT 


47 


idea of ownership in Yule, and here she was, actively 
thrusting it upon him at every turn! 

Yule smiled. His face softened to a sudden tenderness. 

“ Well, she does seem to belong to me more than to 
any one else just at present,” he murmured happily. 

“ Go out and buy something for her dinner, then,” 
snapped Nanetty. “ There’s nothing in the house. I 
meant to have a meal in Chelsea.” 

“ What shall I get?” 

“ What you’re always wanting — a slice of the moon!” 
said Nanetty . . . but she tried to smile at him as 

she said it. 


XI 

Yule Amber opened the door with difficulty. He had 
a lightly-papered cold roast chicken under one arm, a 
long crusty loaf of French bread under the other, a 
bottle of white wine sticking out of his left pocket, three 
large pears bulging from his right. From a paper bag 
in his hand peeped a bunch of pink and white radishes, 
a head of lettuce and some tomatoes. 

He closed the hall-door behind him with his foot and 
strode into the kitchen. 

“There, Nanetty!” he exclaimed, dumping his pur¬ 
chases on the table and looking at her with pride. 

Nanetty turned from the range, over which she had 
been bending, her cheeks hot from the fire. 

“ I thought you weren’t going to do any cooking,” 
he said. 

“ It seemed a pity to waste the good fire,” she re¬ 
turned, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “ So I’m mak¬ 
ing some soup for supper and baking a few scones for 
tea. I say, what a spread you’ve got!” 

“ I thought it was the occasion for a feast,” said Yule, 
smiling —“Chicken, wine, fruit, a salad. She would want 
a little treat after her experiences, poor child.” 


48 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ If you wanted to give her a treat you’d better have 
got ortolans and peaches,” said Nanetty crossly. “ You 
won’t understand, Yule.” Then she melted at the look 
of disappointment that flickered across his face. “ It’ll 
be a treat for me, anyhow, and a little meal that any one 
might enjoy. Will you make the salad? You’re much 
better at it than I am.” 

“ Right.” 

“ The oil and vinegar and things are in the dining¬ 
room. There’s a glass bowl in that cupboard.” 

“ Right,” said Yule again, gathering up his materials. 
His voice was quiet and toneless. 

Nanetty looked after him as he went. It seemed as 
if some spring had gone out of his step. Why had she 
been so sharp with him? Why had she spoiled his inno¬ 
cent pleasure in the little feast he had prepared? She 
wanted to run after him and tell him she was sorry, but 
that would have been too silly, too childish, making too 
much of it. Besides, behind her sharpness was a lurking 
fear, intangible so far, unformulated, unacknowledged: 
yet definite enough, and likely to grow in intensity. What 
was it that made her want to cover Yule as with wings? 
Was it only the eternal mother-impulse, no more? And 
from what did she want to protect him? The wiles of 
that girl upstairs? 

Nanetty looked out on the paved back-yard with eyes 
that did not see the ballooning garments on the clothes¬ 
line or the soot-blackened edge of the shed. 

Was that a real menace or only an imaginary one? 
Genuine passion had rung in the girl’s tone as she spoke 
of the man she loved. . . . But hearts had been 
caught on the rebound: with the creating of a vacuum 
came also the need to have it filled. Tags of general 
wisdom flicked at Nanetty, stinging her. 

“Twenty-four hours ago I was happy, and I didn’t 
know it,” she mused. “Now . . . perhaps I am 

tormenting myself unnecessarily. But- Every one 



MOONLIGHT 


49 


doesn’t see Yule with my eyes. But I swear before 
God”— she clenched her hands with sudden passion — 
“ that I’m not thinking of myself in this. I’m thinking 
only of him. I don’t want him to be hurt again. I 
don’t-” 

“ Where did you say the Tarragon vinegar was? I 
can’t find it in the dining-room,” said Yule’s anxious 
voice behind her. 

After a scarcely perceptible pause, during which Nan- 
etty got a grip of herself again, she swung round to face 
him. He smiled at her. 

“ I’m awfully stupid, I’m afraid,” he said. 

“ No, you’re not. My fault entirely. The vinegar’s 
on the pantry shelf. I forgot I put it there the other 
day.” It was she who was stupid to torment herself un¬ 
necessarily like this. She was seeing all sorts of ridiculous 
possibilities in the mere fact of their giving shelter to a 
strange girl for a day or two. When Jessamy Wyatt left 
them she would slip out of their lives as suddenly as she 
slipped into them, leaving no more definite mark upon 
them than the stone upon the water of the pool into which 
it has been flung. 

“ But what of the circles on the surface?” cried 
Nanetty’s inner fear. “ Who shall say where they may 
end? . . . Oh, don’t be a morbid idiot!” she chid 

herself. “Heavens, the soup is boiling over!” She ran 
over to the range, the Martha in her for the moment 
ousting the Thomas, and took the saucepan off the fire. 
As she did so, the salient scenes from Jessamy Wyatt’s 
story flashed vividly before her mental vision. 

The fair smooth woman and the tall dark man (she felt 
that he must be dark — probably rather Jewish-looking) 
whispering together by the fire-place. The girl standing 
frozen in the doorway, staring, her face mirroring the 
shock, her dismay, her sudden need for flight. She saw 
the flight too, the mad rush through the hall, with no 
more delay than to snatch up a fur coat and pull it on, 


50 


MARSH LIGHTS 


the aimless hurry through suburb and street, the fevered 
wanderings with no end in sight. 

Her heart melted within her as she thought of what 
might have happened to the girl, had she fallen into 
different hands. Then she stiffened again. 

“ I’m thinking in terms of the cinema,” she told her¬ 
self. “ The whole thing is more like a film-story than 
anything that could actually happen to real living people. 
The innocent eavesdropper, the villainess, the plot, the 
flight, the rescue! . . .We shall see it all at the 

Electric Theatre next week! . . . But why couldn’t 

it have happened to some one who appreciates what 
people will call ‘ the pictures ’? Why should it happen to 
us just as things were becoming easier at last? Why 
couldn’t it have waited until we had gone to that dear 
crowded old house in Caroline Place? . . . Why, 

why, why? . . . The eternal question! But I am 

my brother’s keeper, and we are responsible for her now, 
and I’ve just got to grin and bear it. . . . Lord, it’s 

well my teeth are good! I’ve had a fair share of ‘ grin¬ 
ning ’ to do in my time!” 


XII 

As Yule left the kitchen, vinegar-bottle in hand, the 
sound of footsteps on the stairs made him pause in the 
hall. He waited, looking upward expectantly. 

Slow steps they were, hesitant, even reluctant. Yet as 
they grudgingly approached Yule had the odd fancy that 
they were treading deeper and deeper into his heart. 

The stairs creaked louder: there was a flash of apple- 
green through the bannisters. Jessamy had turned the 
corner and, peering downwards, had seen him. She 
stopped. 

“ How am I to face another of them?” she thought 
with a dull dismay. “ Oh, these strangers!” 

Forgotten was her hysterical outburst of last night at 


MOONLIGHT 


51 


Nanetty’s kindness. That little oasis of feeling was com¬ 
pletely buried beneath the fine dry sand of to-day’s com¬ 
mon sense appraisal of her plight. 

Yule caught hold of the bannisters and looked up 
through them. 

In his visions of the night he had seen a lovely dis¬ 
traught princess, silk-clad, silver-shod. He had never for 
a moment pictured the hesitant, half-frightened child 
who stood at the turn of the staircase. Her borrowed 
raiment, gaily patterned with impossible birds and fruit, 
just reached below her knees, looking like a child’s over¬ 
all. The wavy masses of her dark hair and the great 
bewildered, shadowed eyes made her face look strangely 
small. The rounded chin was cleft by a dimple, the soft 
lips set in curves of appeal. 

All Yule’s chivalry burned within him as a purifying 
fire at the sight, touching manhood and knighthood alike 
as it did. How could any one have betrayed the trust of 
this lovely wistfulness? How could any man have found 
it in his heart to use this child ill? 

Nothing of this sudden surge of feeling was apparent in 
his greeting, unless perhaps some wave of sympathy 
radiated from him to her, touching her with its friendly 
warmth, as a warm gust of air may touch one’s cheek in 
passing through a wood. 

“ Good morning. I hope you are rested,” he said, 
smiling. “You are just in time to help me to make a 
salad.” 

“Am I?” She smiled back, with a swift ease of 
mind. 

In this man’s thin, plain face and glowing eyes she 
read nothing but kindliness, appreciation. Whatever she 
did or did not do would find equal favour in his sight. 
This was no stranger. It was the human embodiment of 
that hand stretched out to her in the darkness, of whose 
strength and kindly warmth she was again suddenly con¬ 
scious. 


52 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ I’m afraid I shan’t be of much use,” she admitted 
deprecatingly. “ I never made a salad in my life.” 

In the world she came from salads had always appeared 
ready made. Some one must have prepared them, of 
course, but she had never thought about it. In this queer 
new world into which she had tumbled so suddenly people 
had to do everything for themselves. Nothing happened 
fortuitously. You saw the working of the machinery: 
you heard its cumbrous creaking. 

“ Come and watch me, then,” Yule suggested comfort¬ 
ably. “ You’ll be able to do it yourself next time.” 

Jessamy caught her breath. No matter how he tried 
Yule Amber could not have said anything more reassur¬ 
ing. In the absolute disintegration of her present it 
suggested a continuity, a stability, something for her 
groping, broken tendrils to cling to. “ Next time” . . . 
the simple phrase sounded surpassingly sweet to the 
weary over-strained girl. 

She passed before him into the dining-room, which 
appeared both shabbier and more garish by day than by 
night, and sat down in one of the armchairs. 

“How do you make salads?” she began: then, 
snatched back by memory of her own trouble from the 
trivialities of the moment she cried, almost as if against 
her will, “ Oh, what do these things matter? I’m half 
distracted, wondering what to do. I don’t know where to 
turn.” 

“ Why turn anywhere for the present?” said Yule in 
a tone which he tried to keep calm and friendly. 

“ I can’t quarter myself indefinitely on you.” 

“ Why not? Aren’t you comfortable here?” 

“ It isn’t that.” 

“ What is it, then?” queried Yule, apparently absorbed 
in his salad-making. 

His heart was thudding so loudly that he wondered 
she did not hear it. He did not realize that the strength 
of her present self-absorption was as adamant about her 


MOONLIGHT 53 

senses: that her disclaimer came more from politeness 
than conviction. 

“ It’s — it’s — oh, I can’t tell it all over again,” 
Jessamy cried, twisting her hands. “ It hurts. It almost 
kills me-” 

She turned away her face so that only an ivory curve 
of her cheek showed against the red wall-paper. 

“ You needn’t. I know.” 

She turned again swiftly. “ You know?” Her wild 
brown eyes stilled to a momentary relief. 

“ Yes. Nanetty told me. I hope you don’t mind?” 
Yule said anxiously. 

Jessamy looked at him. In his eyes she saw kindness, 
comprehension, a desire to shelter. This touched the 
only part of her that could be reached at the moment: 
the only part that was conscious of any special need. 

“No, I don’t mind. I had rather you knew, in spite 
of-” Her voice choked. 

Yule pushed aside the salad-bowl and came and stood 
beside her, his face working, his words incoherent. 

“ Look here, you’ll tell me that fellow’s name, won’t 
you? . . . You’ll let me go and give him the thrash¬ 

ing he deserves. You haven’t a man of your own to do 
it for you. Let me be your man. . . . You will, won’t 
you? ... I am your man, whether you know it or 
not. . . . Your servant, ready to serve you.” 

Numbed as Jessamy’s senses were by her recent shock, 
Yule’s outburst yet found a chink by which to enter: here 
was the homage, the adulation to which she had been 
used for the greater part of her young life. The only 
and adored child of a well-to-do man, something of an 
heiress in her own way, daily incense had been swung 
before her and the scent of it was sweet in her nostrils. 
The accustomed whiff rose pleasantly. She did not guess 
how deep was the censer from which it came. 

“ You are good. You are kind,” she faltered. 

“ You’ll let me horsewhip the cur, won’t you?” 




54 


MARSH LIGHTS 


For an instant the flash of primitive womanhood 
sparkled in her eyes at the thought of men’s combat. 
Then it died away as she shook her head. 

“ No. I don’t want to have anything more to do with 
them. . . . Besides, you couldn’t.” 

“ Why not?” 

“He — is much bigger than you are.” 

“ It is the spirit rather than the flesh which counts in 
these things.” 

“ Not if it came to a question of your horsewhipping 
him!” The ghost of a smile flickered round Jessamy’s 
lips at the thought. She shook her head again. “ It’s 
not a case for physical force. I don’t want ever to see 
them, ever to hear of them again. I want to burn my 
boats so that I can’t go back. I want to slam every 
door between us.” She repeated her metaphor with 
childish emphasis as if the mere saying of the words would 
give them form and substance. “ How am I to do this?” 

“ Could you take a little flat-” 

“ I couldn’t possibly live alone, and I haven’t enough 
money to pay any one to live with me, even if there was 
any one whom I could bear to have about me always.” 

“ You can stay with us, you know, as long as you 
like.” 

Jessamy looked round her disdainfully. “I’m sorry, 
but I don’t think I could endure living in a house like 
this, either.” 

“ Of course you couldn’t,” Yule exclaimed eagerly. 
“It’s an utterly detestable house in every way. But 
we’re leaving it in a day or two. An old cousin of mine 
has left me a queer little house in Chelsea and we’re going 
to move in on — as soon as we’re ready.” He changed 
his sentence cleverly lest she should be embarrassed. 

“Oh!” said Jessamy. ... A house in Chelsea? 
That sounded better. “ I don’t know Chelsea at all. I 
thought only artists lived there.” 

“ It’s only Chelsea by courtesy, really,” Yule ex- 



MOONLIGHT 


55 


plained. “ It’s on the Westminster end of the Embank¬ 
ment. Besides, we are artists, after a fashion. Nanetty 
paints and 1 draw — just ridiculous things, you know. 
But I’ve had a sketch in the ‘ Bystander,’ and I’ve 
designed a few book plates and things like that. Do 
you-” 

“ I don’t do anything, I’m afraid. I can sing a little, 
and I can dance — just modern ball-room dances, but 
that’s about all.” 

“No hope of a career there, I’m afraid.” 

“ But I don’t want a career. I just want to live — 
quietly if I must — but happily in any case, if I can.” 

Yule smiled whimsically. It was a smile that lay more 
in his eyes than his lips. 

“ Now you’re asking all the gifts of the gods,” he said. 

“Am I?” returned the girl listlessly. “But Claire 
would be sure to find me out. She’d persuade me that I 
was mistaken. She’s awfully plausible. She’d make me 
go back, and I don’t want to go. . . . Oh, I 

don’t want to! . . . Everything’s broken, tarnished, 

soiled.” She twisted her hands in a sudden accession of 
nervousness. 

“ Poor little girl,” said Yule gently, at a loss how to 
help her. “ But you must get into touch with some one 
who knows you. Haven’t you any close friend-” 

“ All my friends are Claire’s.” 

“ Is there no one — a clergyman, a banker, a 
solicitor-” 

“Ah, there’s Mr. Heppel, of course.” 

“ Who is he?” 

“ Daddy’s solicitor. I had forgotten all about him. 
He manages my business affairs and looks after my 
money for me.” 

Yule felt relieved. “ We’ll go to him immediately after 
dinner.” 

“ But won’t that be too late? Couldn’t we go 
sooner?” asked Jessamy anxiously. 





56 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ Sooner?” echoed Yule. “ We dine at half-past one 

- Oh, you’d call it lunch, of course. . . . Unless 

you’d like to ’phone to him.” 

“ No. I must see him to explain things properly.” 

“ He can ’phone to your stepmother to send along your 
clothes and things,” suggested Yule, feeling eminently 
practical. 

“ But not here. Not here. She mustn’t know where 
I am,” cried Jessamy wildly. 

“No, no, not here, but to Mr. Heppel’s office. He 
can send them direct to Radnor Crescent then, and you’ll 
have them to-night.” 

“ Yes. Fletcher will pack what I want, and I can send 
for my other things later when I have settled what I am 
going to do. . . . I can’t bear not having my own 

clothes. . . . I’m afraid I’ll have to ask your cousin 

to lend me some shoes and a hat, though. My fur coat 
will cover all other deficiencies.” 

“ Nanetty will lend you anything in the world,” Yule 
assured her. 

Jessamy stuck out feet cased in blue-felt bedroom 
slippers, and regarded them dubiously. She felt appre¬ 
hensively certain of the dowdiness of her benefactress’s 
foot-gear. 

“ You’ll get a taxi, then, the instant after lunch — 
dinner, I mean.” 

“ Certainly,” said Yule, though the thought of a taxi 
had not hitherto occurred to him. 

Jessamy looked at her feet again and gave a little 
sigh. Dowdiness was to her, so far, one of the unfor- 
giveable sins. But she need not have had such qualms. 
Nanetty’s feet were, after her hair, her only other personal 
vanity, and she always saw that they went well, if not 
exactly smartly shod. 

“ Extremes meet,” she had decided long ago. “ If 
one’s hair is properly brushed and dressed and one’s feet 
decently clad, it doesn’t matter so much what goes in 



MOONLIGHT 


57 


between.” Thus she pushed her crooked shoulder into 
the background. “ It needn’t warp one’s mind even if it 
does warp one’s body,” she told herself. 

XIII 

Jessamy Wyatt came out of Mr. Heppel’s office in 
Gray’s Inn with two bright spots flaming in her cheeks. 

Amber, who had waited outside for her, hastened to 
meet her. 

“ Well?” he said expectantly. “ Had a satisfactory 
interview?” 

She almost ran to him, as one runs to a street island 
for safety from the converging traffic, so safe he seemed, 
so secure an oasis in the conflicting whirl of her life. 

“ Yes and no,” she gasped, her breath coming quickly 
as if she had been running. “ Is there any quiet place 
near where we could sit and talk?” 

“ The Temple Gardens are quite close. Do you think 
you could walk as far as that?” 

“ Yes. Yes. Let us go. Which way?” 

“ This way.” He turned in the direction of the 
Gardens. 

Their footsteps echoed on the flagged passages. The 
tall old houses leaned above them, shutting out all but 
a blue strip of sky, hemming the human atoms in with 
their brooding hints of th£ secrets they knew, the 
tragedies and comedies which they could disclose if they 
would. 

Once hurrying past a dark doorway, Jessamy turned 
her ankle on a crooked flag-stone, and caught at Yule’s 
arm to keep herself from falling. His heart leaped at 
her touch. He had the same sensation as last night of a 
sudden cold emptiness when she took her hand away 
again. 

She spoke only once during their hurried walk. 

“ I don’t feel safe,” she cried in a distracted tone that 


58 


MARSH LIGHTS 


tugged at Yule’s heart-strings. “ Oh, I don’t feel safe.” 

It was a typical early March day: white clouds driven 
across the heavenly fields of blue by a boisterous 
shepherd-wind, that raised eddies of dust on earth and 
set stray papers dancing with a dervish madness. 

There were few people in the gardens at that hour. 
An empty seat was easily found. Jessamy sank on it 
wearily, leaning back, then leaning forward again as if 
unable to rest. 

“Why don’t you feel safe?” Yule asked gently. It 
was torture to him to see her fear, her agitation. 

Jessamy faced him with a wild look. “ Because- 

Because- Oh, Mr. Heppel didn’t understand. He 

insisted that I must be making a mistake, that I must 
have misunderstood. . . . You see, Claire had got 

him first. . . . She ’phoned to him early this morn¬ 

ing about me. ... He was very stern. He blamed 
me, thought I had behaved very badly. ... He said 
that Claire was distracted about me, that he must re¬ 
assure her at once as to my safety.” 

“ Well, there’s no harm in that,” said Yule, as she 
paused for breath. 

“ But there is . . . there is. You don’t know 
Claire. I do. She’d get you, too, if she tried. She’d 
twist you-” 

“ No, she wouldn’t. I’m your man.” 

Jessamy shook her head. “ You don’t know her,” she 
said again. “ I did make Mr. Heppel promise that he 
wouldn’t tell her where I was staying. He conceded that 
at last — reluctantly, I must say. He’ll keep his word 
— yet still I don’t feel safe. Claire will find me out 
somehow. I know she will. Then she’ll make me go 
back, persuade me that I was mistaken, and perhaps — 

he- Oh, I can’t! I can’t!” She covered her face 

with her hands for a moment and shrank, shuddering 
against the hard wooden seat. 

“ How I wish I could help you,” breathed Yule. 






MOONLIGHT 


59 


He looked for inspiration at the disconsolate garden, 
with its black mould pierced by thrusts of pale-green iris- 
spears and brightened here and there by the broken 
gold of belated crocuses. Sparrows clustered thick as 
fruit on the bare boughs above them: a strange brown 
winter fruit that suddenly took to itself wings and de¬ 
serted the blackened branches to hop about their feet 
in search of friendly crumbs. 

“ I’d do anything in the world for you,” said Yule to 
the busy expectant sparrows, his hands tightly clasped 
between his knees. “ That sounds trite, I know, but it’s 
the absolute, literal truth.” 

“ Is it?” Jessamy spoke in a whisper. “ Do you 
really mean it?” She gazed searchingly at him, a spark 
of hope in her great wild eyes. 

“ On my honour. Just try me and see if there is any¬ 
thing I wouldn’t do for you.” 

“ I wonder. . . . Oh, I wonder! . . .” Jessamy 
caught her breath, and looked at him again with that 
searching half-frightened appeal. 

“ How can I convince you how desperately in earnest 
I am?” 

“ You’ll think me extraordinary.” 

“No, I shan’t. I’ll understand.” 

“ Oh, will you? Will you? . . . People say that, 

you know, and then they don’t, and it’s dreadful.” 

“ Just try me,” said Yule once more, holding his 
breath for what was coming, his face transfigured with 
some inner radiance. . . . Oh, if only she would 

trust him, use him! That would indeed be his accolade. 

At last Jessamy took the plunge. Her words tumbled 
over each other incoherently. 

“ It’s a way out, a door to slam which they could 
never open. I am of age, you know. In one sense I am 
free to do as I like. If I marry without Claire’s consent 
before I am twenty-five she would get my thousand a 
year. . . . That would please her. She loves money, 


60 


MARSH LIGHTS 


or rather the power that money brings. . . . Oh, how 

is it that I see all that so clearly now? She must have 
tied a bandage over my eyes before.” 

“ If you marry? . . said Yule in a strange voice. 

“ Yes, if I marry,” Jessamy answered in the same 
high, excited tones, glancing at him and away again. 
“It is the only thing I can think of that would keep her 
away from me. She would have no more power over me 
then. She couldn’t touch a married woman. ... I 
thought it all out this morning. . . . It’s a mad idea, of 
course . . . utterly foolish and impossible . . . 

only — only-” she broke off in a flame of embar¬ 

rassment. 

Yule bent over her and took the nervously beating 
hands in his, his own heart thudding with excitement. 

“ Do you really mean that you would let me do this 
for you? That you would let me give you the shelter of 
my name? Let me stand between you and the world? 
My dear, my dear, do you really mean this?” His voice 
rang. 

Jessamy shrank a little from his fervency, but left 
her hands in his. There was comfort in his warm 
clasp. 

“ Is that the way you look at it?” she asked very 
low. 

“ Of course it’s the way I look at it,” he cried, 
joyously. “ It’s the way any man would look at it.” 

“ Oh, no, no. . . . For I’ve nothing to give. 
Please understand that. I gave all that was in me to — 
that other, who flung it into the gutter.” 

“ Don’t think of that now.” 

“ But I must think of it. We must get things clear. 
There must be no mistakes, no misunderstandings. It’s 
— just a bargain between us. . . . You offered to 
help me. . . . That’s the only way I can think of. 
It isn’t as if. . . . You know that there can be no 
pretence of love between us. ... I-! And you? 




MOONLIGHT 61 

. . . You are a widower. . . . Your heart is in 
a grave, isn’t it?” 

“ No,” answered Yule bluntly. 

“Oh!” she looked up, startled. 

“ My — my marriage was a mistake. It wasn’t — a 
real marriage,” said Yule with difficulty. “ Real marriage, 
like the Kingdom of Heaven, is within one. It’s not 
dependent on forms or ceremonies. It — mine — wasn’t 
that sort of marriage.” 

“ Neither would this one be,” put in Jessamy quickly. 
“ It — well, it’s just a way of escape for me. For you — 
it’s simply being taken at your word. You were rash 
enough to say-” 

“ What I meant unalterably,” Yule assured her. 

“ Very well, then,” Jessamy’s face flamed with what 
must still be said. “I — haven’t had much experience, 
but I’m not a child, you know. I quite understand that 
there are certain aspects — certain obligations. . . . 

I — I could pay — in one way — for my bargain — if 
you wished . . . though without love, I think it would 
be disgusting,” she ended in a burst of frightened 
candor. 

“ So do I,” said Yule, his face as hot as her own. 
“ Don’t let us talk of bargains. There can be none 
between you and me. You honour me by letting me help 
you. I shan’t ask you for anything more than you will 
want to give me — ever. Remember that. I am your 
man. I put my hands under your feet, as the Spanish 
say. My highest honour and duty is to serve you, now 
and always. Remember that, too.” 

He pressed her ungloved hands reassuringly, longing 
to pour through their mutual contact something of the 
love, the confidence, the exultance that filled him. Then 
he bent and kissed the hot, clinging fingers. Her lightest 
touch thrilled him. The sense of her trust in him wrapped 
the whole world in a sudden golden glamour. The wonder 


62 


MARSH LIGHTS 


of it, the magic! ... If only he were really worthy, 
but who could be, of such lovely trustful innocence? 

For a moment the path he had to tread flashed as in a 
vision before him. It was the way of the “ veray, gentil, 
parfit knight,” to which he had so impulsively vowed 
himself. He saw the solitary vigil, the stony path beset 
with thorns and dangers, the bitter-sweet of daily tempta¬ 
tion, the rigour of night with the drawn sword ever 
between them. . . . Aye, the sword, maybe, but above, 
the splendour of the stars. . . . Could he do it? . . . 

He drew a long breath. In that instant of vision he 
was truly rapt away from earth. 

Jessamy gave a quick little gasp as she looked at him. 
There was something in his face which she had never 
seen before in mortal face, something which touched her 
all at once to a sense of the finer issues, the larger human 
complications in this course of action which she had been 
planning so lightly. Some sense of fatality seized her, 
some swift apprehension of the irrevocably closed door. 
She sighed again, but the momentary fear evaporated as 
quickly as it had come as she looked at Yule once more. 
Surely, nothing base, nothing mean had harbourage 
behind that kind plain face with its steady grey eyes and 
untidy reddish hair. Yule Amber had been gentleness, 
chivalry itself ever since their first meeting — was it only 
last night? iFons of growth, of experience seemed to 
have passed over Jessamy’s head in these few fateful 
hours. 

“ You will be kind to me?” she murmured. 

“ Kind?” Yule came back to her slowly, with a dazed 
glory in his eyes. He laughed. “Kind! What a poor, 
pitiful, inadequate little word! A paltry little word, and 
yet — the thing it represents is one of the big things in 
life, one of the things that really matter. . . . Yes, 
I think I may safely promise to be kind to you.” He 
laughed again at the sheer ridiculousness of such a 
request. 


MOONLIGHT 


63 


u You’re asking nothing of me,” Jessamy whispered, 
shamefacedly. 

“ I am asking a great deal. I am asking you to trust 
me. You do, don’t you?” 

“ I didn’t, how could I-?” A wan smile com¬ 

pleted the ellipsis. 

“ God helping me, you will never regret it,” he vowed. 

“ No,” said Jessamy. “ No.” Her breath came pant- 
ingly. “ Don’t let us be so solemn,” she begged. “ I 
— I really can’t bear to have you so solemn.” 

“ I won’t be solemn any longer,” he promised her, his 
eyes shining. “ Let’s talk of ways and means.” 

“ Can — it — be soon?” 

“ Yes, I fancy so.” 

“ To-morrow? The next day?” 

“ I believe so — at a Registrar’s. I must inquire. I 
never-” 

“ Let’s go and see about it at once,” Jessamy jumped 
up. “ I shan’t feel really safe until it’s all over.” 

Yule rose too. “We’ll get a taxi on the Embank¬ 
ment. I’ll take you home first and then-” 

“ Oh, no, no. Don’t leave me. Take me with you.” 

“ Right.” 

“ Need we — need we — tell your cousin until it’s 
safely over?” thrust Jessamy tentatively. 

All at once Yule tumbled from the clouds. It was a 
most extraordinary thing, but he had completely for¬ 
gotten Nanetty! 

Nanetty! 

How on earth would she take it? She would call him 
mad, a fool, worse. She would turn the staring search¬ 
light of her common sense on his iris-winged romance, 
exposing its every weakness, its pitiful inadaptability to 
the coarse-fingered working-day world, its splendid folly 
and disregard of consequences. 

An almost uncontrollable desire seized him to fall in 
with Jessamy’s obvious wish and keep Nanetty in ignor- 





64 


MARSH LIGHTS 


ance of what they purposed doing until the deed was 
done. It would be easier, certainly. Nanetty knew, 
none better, that it was waste of breath to rail at the 
inevitable: but Yule felt that she would not spare him 
for anything less. 

To make it irrevocable: the temptation gripped him, 
held him, shook him. The easy way, the coward’s way 
lay plain before him. He had only to hold his tongue 
until the intervening hours were over, then silence all 
possible protest by confronting Nanetty with the inevi¬ 
table. But was that the way of the “ veray gentil, parfit 
knight”? Did Nanetty deserve such treatment of him, 
to whom she had been always so staunch, so splendid a 
friend? Every link of the chain of memories which 
bound them together shot sparks of protest against the 
thought. 

No. Yule Amber was strong enough to take this blind 
leap into the dark at another woman’s request, but he 
was not strong enough to hurt Nanetty, his dear old 
Nanetty. 

“ I’m afraid we must,” he answered, some of the fire 
gone from his tone. “ We can’t do this without telling 
Nanetty.” 

In his inmost soul he knew that it would be difficult 
telling, but he was not going to begin his new life by 
trampling on the dear and beautiful things of the old one. 

XV 

The gas-fire hissed in the dining-room grate, sucking 
up much of the air’s freshness in the little room, although 
the window stood wide open. The incandescent light 
near the mantelpiece bubbled and flickered irritatingly 
within its red glass globe. 

Yule got up and fiddled with it, and for a moment it 
became quieter: then it broke out into its loud plop-plop- 
plop again. 


MOONLIGHT 


65 


“ Damn the thing!” he exclaimed. 

“ Why don’t you light up?” asked Nanetty, looking 
up from the sock she was darning. “ Your best-beloved 
briar is on the chimney-piece near you.” 

“ Good idea,” said Yule, reaching for it and stuffing 
the bowl with the Virginian mixture he always smoked. 

During this little commonplace ritual Nanetty glanced 
at him again. Jessamy Wyatt had gone to bed immedi¬ 
ately after supper in a room newly feminized by Nanetty, 
who, during their absence in the afternoon, had removed 
all visible traces of Yule’s previous occupancy, put fresh 
linen on the bed, and tentatively lent Jessamy a portion 
of her own scanty wardrobe. 

The scene in its simple domesticity was the replica of 
a hundred others, yet the essence, the spirit which had 
made the homely happiness of those others was entirely 
lacking in this. Something had gone — only momentarily, 
Nanetty hoped. 

But if change once breaks in upon routine, can things 
ever be quite the same again? . . . The coming of 

Jessamy Wyatt, not twenty-four hours ago, seemed to 
have altered everything irrevocably. Would life readjust 
itself to its old happy channel when she went away 
again, Nanetty wondered? Yule’s face vaguely alarmed 
her. She knew it so well, every line, every expression, 
every shade of feeling that flitted across it. 

There was something in it to-night which she tried to 
read: a queer glow, an exaltation that heralded one of 
his most pronounced Quixotisms: a very unusual irrita¬ 
bility: a deprecation towards herself, equally unwonted. 
He had something on his mind: something of which 
he feared she might not approve. . . . Well, she 

probably wouldn’t, but she was sure to give in in the 
end, and aid and abet him in whatever dear folly he 
purposed. She generally did. She had only to wait and 
he would tell her everything. A tender little smile played 
round her lips at the thought. 


66 


MARSH LIGHTS 


Yule saw the smile and took courage from it. The 
thing had to be: Nanetty must be told. He could not 
sleep that night until she knew. She would disapprove, 
of course, but he would win her round eventually. She 
would be Jessamy’s best friend as well as his. There 
was nothing in the world to prevent them from living 
happily together, all three, he thought in his masculine 
blindness. Jessamy — suddenly he realized how little he 
knew of the girl’s character, temperament, ideas. Their 
upbringing had been totally different: their outlook would 
probably be from far divergent angles. A saying of his 
mother’s came back to console him. 

“ No man and woman ever really know each other 
until they’re married, no matter how long or how well 
they have apparently known each other beforehand.” 

There was more than a seed of truth in that. In an 
incredibly short space of time it had sprouted, grown 
from seedling to plant, from plant to sapling, from sapling 
to tree, beneath whose beneficent shade Yule could 
shelter happily from the beams of Nanetty’s glaring 
searchlight. 

He smiled at the thought. Nanetty caught the smile 
and spoke her own thought at the moment. 

“ You’ll sleep more comfortably to-night, boy. I’ve 
made up a sort of bed for you in the study and put 
your things there^” 

“ Thanks, old thing, but you shouldn’t have bothered.” 
A warmth of gratitude rose within him and radiated 
towards her. . . . How good Nanetty was, how 

thoughtful, how unselfish! There was no one like her, 
really. .... Let her go? Detestable, impossible 
thought! He would grapple her to him “with hooks of 
steel ” if she ever even tried to run away. ... To 
run away. ... It was only a desperate, frightened 
child like Jessamy who would do a thing like that. . . . 
Jessamy, who had run straight into his heart the instant 
he had seen her. . . . No, before he had seen her 


MOONLIGHT 


67 


even. What was that inaudible call which had sent him 
hot-foot to where she crouched against the railings? 

“ It’s not purely physical,” he told himself exultantly, 
as if defending himself against some unseen accuser. 
“ It’s not. It’s not. I loved her before I even saw her. 
How do you account for that?” 

He pulled hard at his pipe. For an instant longer the 
old atmosphere pervaded the stuffy little room. The old 
rapport still existed between the woman who darned and 
the man who smoked in such simple, friendly juxtaposi¬ 
tion. Then Nanetty shattered it for ever with a phrase: 
trivial, domestic, undramatic. 

“ What are we going to do about moving on Friday? 
Is Miss Wyatt to come with us?” 

The moment had come. Yule swallowed hard, and 
shifted his pipe a little. “ Yes, she’s coming with us. 
She’s coming for good. I — we — Nanetty, I’m going 
to marry her!” 

Nanetty dropped the sock with the olive-wood darning- 
egg in it on her lap. She stared at Yule as if he had 
hit her between the eyes: as indeed he had, in a spiritual 
sense. She felt stunned for the moment. In her wildest 
imaginings she had not foreseen so fatally swift a devel¬ 
opment, though she knew now that this was the fear 
that had lurked in dark ambush ever since the girl’s 
coming. 

“ You’re not in earnest,” she gasped at last, stupidly. 
“ You can’t be.” 

“But I am. I’m more in earnest than I’ve ever been 
in my life before. It’s as if I had always been dreaming 
up to now, as if I were really only awake at last.” 

“ Yule, you’re mad. You’re dreaming harder than 
ever, or am I?” She put her hand to her forehead in a 
bewildered fashion. She could not believe even yet that 
she had heard aright. 

Yule was on his knees at her side, capturing the 
wandering hand and holding it close in his, pouring forth 


68 


MARSH LIGHTS 


his thoughts, his emotions in an incoherent flood, which 
was as a stream in spate compared with former trickles. 

“ We’re not dreaming, Nanetty darling. Or if so, 
it’s a dream from which I hope we’ll never awaken. 
. . . She trusts me. . . . She honours me. . . . 
I’m not worthy*. . . . JNo man could be. . . . Yet 
after her dreadful disillusionment it seems too wonderful 
... too blessedly wonderful. But I’ll make it all up 
to her ... if ever a man. ... All she wants is 
to feel safe, to have some one between her and all that 
she fears. ... If only I can — but I’ll be able to, 
surely . . . purely. . . .” 

“ Stop, Yule. I want the truth. Did this girl ask 
you to marry her?” 

“ Nanetty-” 

His cry told her all that she wanted to know. 

“ Thanks,” she said dryly. “ You must be mad, I 
think.” 

“ Mad? ... No, blessedly sane.” 

“ Infernally insane,” snapped Nanetty. “ Who but a 
madman would give in to this colossally selfish creature’s 
desire to shelter herself behind you at the cost of your 
whole future life, your whole future happiness? You’ve 
been carried away by a moment of impulse-” 

“ No!” 

“ I say yes, and I know you through and through. 
Better than you know yourself, perhaps. Half an hour’s 
calm reflection would show you the absolute idiocy of this 
monstrous idea.” 

“ It’s not a monstrous idea. It’s an inspiration.” 

“Nonsense, Yule. You’ve done enough idiotic things 
in your life before now, but this is, surely, the crowning 
folly of them all.” 

“ It isn’t. Listen, Nanetty. . . . You must listen. 
This — I’m not going into this thing blindly, as you 
imagine. I’m going into it with my eyes wide open.” 

Nanetty moved impatiently. “Nonsense,” she said 



MOONLIGHT 


69 


again. Then she broke out. “ The girl can’t care for 
you.” 

“ She doesn’t pretend to. We — are to be just friends. 
She is to let me serve her, give her the shelter of my 
name and my home-” 

“ A very one-sided arrangement. . . . Look here, 
Yule. You and I have always been frank with each other. 
You’re a man. You’ve just escaped from one uncon¬ 
genial marriage. Are you really determined to plunge 
straight into another?” 

“ Yes.” Yule’s face was white: his lips set in a firm 
hard line. Only his eyes still held that queer inner glow. 
“ It — won’t be uncongenial — in one sense.” 

“ What do you mean?” 

“ Nanetty, do you remember what we were talking 
about — was it only last night?” he broke off to wonder 
incredulously. 

Nanetty nodded. She could not speak. Her feelings 
choked her. How was she to save him from this mad¬ 
ness? 

“ You wanted me to promise you something. You 
remember?” 

She nodded again. The hands that Yule held quivered 
and were still. 

“ Well-” his voice sank very low. “ This — is the 

big thing, the real thing, Nanetty.” 

She started. “ Oh, my God!” she cried wildly. “Then 
it is even worse than I thought.” 

“ Worse?” he echoed, looking up at her with a puzzled 
expression. 

“Yes, worse, far worse. If you care as you think you 
do, boy, how are you going to stand it? How long do 
you think you can endure giving all and getting nothing? 
You’re only human, remember.” She thrust on. She 
could spare him nothing now. When disaster came, as 
come it would, he could not say she had not warned him. 
“You’re a man, with all a man’s natural passions and 



70 


MARSH LIGHTS 


desires. Can you stick it? Have you any idea what it 
will mean to you?” 

“ Yes,” Yule whispered thickly. “ I’m not a fool. I 
know.” 

“ But that’s just what you are,” cried Nanetty, exas¬ 
perated afresh, both at his blindness and her own help¬ 
lessness. “ A fool, a mad fool — and the girl is worse. 
She’s a criminal lunatic!” 

“ Stop, old girl,” said Yule. “ Don’t say things you’ll 
be sorry for afterwards. There’s no use in your raving 
like that. The thing has got to be. I am going to marry 
Jessamy on Friday morning. We can spend — the honey¬ 
moon ”— his lips twisted into a wry smile —“ at Caro¬ 
line Place.” 

Silence hung like a menace over the room, broken only 
by the bubbling of the gas. Then Nanetty said, her face 
turned away: 

“ That doesn’t leave me much time to look for rooms.” 

Yule jumped to his feet and positively shouted: 

“Rooms! Rooms! I’m damned if you’re going to 
look for rooms.” 

His violence, in some strange way, eased the ache that 
Nanetty knew would presently be almost unbearable. 

“ I can’t possibly stay on at Caroline Place.” 

“ Why not? Your room is there. Your studio is there. 
Everything is to be just the same as ever — except — ex¬ 
cept for Jessamy.” 

“ Which means that nothing can possibly ever again 
be the same,” thought Nanetty, beginning to accept the 
inevitable, as Yule had known she would. Yet, although 
she was well aware of the iron streak of obstinacy in 
Yule, she made one last effort: “ Can’t you wait a little 
longer? Why rush into the irrevocable like this? Once 
you’re married you can’t unmarry again in a hurry. 
It’s for life, remember. Why this mad haste? For it 
is mad, you know, if you would only realize it.” 

“ Jessamy wants to feel safe.” 


MOONLIGHT 


71 


“ So to be safe from imaginary dangers she has 
persuaded you to rush into a cage with her from which 
neither of you can escape as long as you both live!She 
could not keep the bitterness out of her tone. “ It would 
be pitiable if it weren’t so maddeningly idiotic.” 

“ I can’t help it. I’ve promised. One has to take 
certain risks in life,” said Yule doggedly. Then his face 
changed, softened to coaxing. “ We’ve got to follow 
our star, Nanetty, you and I. You said so, remember.” 

“ Nonsense. This isn’t a star. It’s a will o’ the wisp, 
a marsh light. . . . And as to this insane idea of 

our all living together like the happy family in a 
menagerie, it won’t work, you know, Yule. Two strange 
women in a house will never agree. Jessamy and I don’t 
even know each other. We are poles apart. We’re 
bound to clash. We haven’t even the mutual bond of 
caring for you.” She could not spare him that thrust. 

Yule did not even wince. “ That ought to make for 
harmony rather than discord, I think. You’ll give it a 
trial, anyhow, won’t you, Nanetticoat? It’s not going 
to be easy for any of us, just at first especially. You 
won’t make it harder by tearing yourself out of my life 
like that? You’ll stick to me, you’ll see me through once 
more, won’t you?” 

“ Oh, if you’re only thinking of your own happiness 
-” began Nanetty hardly. 

“ But I’m not. My happiness- What does that 

matter!” He lifted one of her hands and laid it against 
his cheek. His words came slowly, tinged with that 
shamefaced reluctance with which the Englishman voices 
his deeper feelings. “ You and I, Nanetty — we’ve 
always agreed about that. . . . We’ve always known 
that life should be touched to finer issues than the mere 
attainment of happiness. . . . We’ve always believed 
that it isn’t our own happiness that matters, but — 
courage, and kindness, and faith. . . . The way one 
faces life, rather than what one gets out of it- . . . I’ve 




72 


MARSH LIGHTS 


got to help Jessamy to win through now, and you’ve got 
to help me.” 

“ And who’s going to help me?” Nanetty broke out. 

“ We’ll all help each other. Anyhow, I can’t do with¬ 
out you, Nanetty, old thing. You know that, don’t you?” 

He turned to kiss the work-worn hand he held. 

Nanetty drew it away abruptly. 

“ Oh, I suppose I do,” she sighed grudgingly. She 
knew that she would have to give in, even against her 
better judgment. Yule was up and away on his Pegasus 
now, soaring among the stars, but presently he would 
come down to earth again, jolted out of his saddle, 
maybe, by the bump. 

It never occurred to her that she might, perhaps, help 
him better by leaving him to fend for himself: letting 
him develop his own protections instead of using her 
as one of them. 

“ I don’t believe in these unnatural inhibitions,” 
Nanetty said suddenly, apropos of nothing. “ If you 
persist in this mad marriage, Yule, make it a real one, 
not one of these abnormal travesties which are bad for 
every one.” 

Yule was silent. It was a silence which quickly grew 
sharp-edged. He rose stiffly to his feet. 

“ You don’t understand,” he said at last, his face very 
red. 

Nanetty’s temper, strained as it was to breaking-point, 
snapped suddenly. It was too much to have such an 
accusation levelled against her twice in the same day, 
first by Jessamy and now by Yule. 

“ Of course not,” she cried hotly. “ How could a 
spinster of forty-five possibly understand anything? She 
is popularly supposed to go through life blind, deaf and 
utterly incapable of observation. . . . Goodnight, Yule. 
I think I’d better go to bed.” 

She gathered up socks, wool and needles, stuffed them 
hastily into a cretonne bag and turned to leave the room. 


MOONLIGHT 73 

Yule, after a moment’s hesitance, went after her and 
put his hand on her shoulder. 

“ Aren’t you even going to give me your good wishes, 
Nanetty?” he pleaded, rather sadly. 

She turned again. “ My good wishes?” she echoed 
bitterly. “ What are they worth to you, Yule?” 

“ Don’t, old thing,” he said gently. 

“ My good wishes? . . . Oh, you know you have 
them, you exasperating creature! You know that I wish 
you all the joy and gladness which you’re putting out of 
your reach for ever by your own mad folly.” 

“ An original form of congratulation,” said Yule dryly. 
“ But fortunately I know that your bark is worse than 
your bite, old girl. . . . Perhaps I haven’t put them 
quite out of reach after all.” 

“ I wish to God I could think so,” cried Nanetty. Then 
she smiled suddenly. “ I believe we were almost on the 
verge of a quarrel. This won’t do, you know, boy. You 
must learn to control your temper better!” 

Yule laughed. The atmosphere seemed suddenly 
clearer and lighter. “ I’ll try,” he assured her. Then he 
bent and rubbed his cheek boyishly against hers. “ I 
didn’t mean that about not understanding, Nanetty . . . 
you always understand everything.” 

At that, Nanetty’s last fence broke down. She gave 
in unconditionally, as she turned and hid against Yule’s 
shoulder for a moment the difficult burning tears that 
forced themselves to her eyes. 

XVI 

“ What do you make of this, Lucas?” asked Claire 
Wyatt, holding the letter out to Grote with large white 
fingers poised as disdainfully as though they held some 
noxious insect. 

The drawing-room at Tudor Lodge, a spacious, 
gracious room of soft tones, mellow chintzes, warmly- 


74 


MARSH LIGHTS 


coloured old china and admirable furniture, made a good 
setting for the fair placidity of her generous outlines and 
the pale abundant gold of her hair, now cleverly accen¬ 
tuated by her black gown and long chain and earrings 
of jet. 

“ Claire’s is the fairness that will last until her hair 
turns suddenly from gold to silver,” thought the man, in 
whose life she had once shone as the sun, moon, and stars, 
although she was now no more than the merest necessary 
rushlight. 

Lucas Grote was tall and immaculately tailored. His 
was that dark, rather Semitic type of good looks which 
appeals irresistibly to some women. He read the letter 
through and handed it back to Mrs. Wyatt before speak¬ 
ing. His manner was generally suave and controlled, but 
from his restless fingering of his small black tooth-brush 
moustache and the sudden reddish glint in his eyes, Claire 
knew that he was holding back some violent outburst. 

“ Do swear if you like, my dear man,” she said with 
that faint elusive smile so characteristic of her, which 
those who admired her called Mona Lisan and those 
who did not, sly. “ It will relieve my feelings as well.” 

“ I would much rather spank Jessamy,” he said thickly. 
“ Damned little brat, what did she mean by putting us all 
in the cart like this?” 

Claire smiled again. “It is only herself whom she has 
succeeded in ‘ putting in the cart ’ as you so elegantly 
express it, poor foolish child!” 

“ It’s all very well for you. You get your thousand a 
year in any case. But what about me? A pretty figure 
I cut, tricked and made a fool of like this!” 

“ Dear Lucas, is that only hurt pride or is it something 
deeper?” 

“ You know I am crazy about the girl. I’ll have her 
too, in the end. . . . There’s something about her 

- I don’t know what, but it ... I- Damn 

it, Claire, I must have her.” 


MOONLIGHT 


75 


“ She’s a taking child, a most attractive child, but 
sadly impulsive, I’m afraid,” sighed Claire. She brought 
the battery of her enigmatic pale grey eyes to bear full 
upon the angry distorted face of the man who leaned 
against the mantelpiece. “ Whatever mad mistake she 
has made, Lucas, we must bear her no malice for it. 
Give her enough rope now and she’ll-” 

“ Hang herself, eh? She’s tied herself up pretty 
tightly, anyhow, with the amount of rope she’s stolen 
for herself.” 

“ Exactly,” returned Claire gently. “ She will soon 
tire of this poverty-stricken life which she has chosen and 
be glad enough to come back to us on our own terms. 
You know of Edmund’s written instructions to me. She 
doesn’t. I was only to withhold my consent to her 
marriage if the man she wanted to marry had anything 
against him morally or physically. I was ready to waive 
a point in your favour, Lucas, for, morally, you know 

-” she finished her sentence with a smile and a little 

shrug. 

“ Damn it, Claire, you were to get a thousand a year 
for that,” cried Lucas Grote with sudden fury. 

“ Gently, gently, my dear man. That violence of yours 
will be your own undoing if you’re not careful. Has 
been, perhaps, for it was something you said the other 
night which Jessamy must have overheard-” 

“ Or you, Claire. I’m hanged if I can remember what 
we could have said to make her bolt like that.” 

“ What does it matter now? She is impulsive and 
imaginative, and probably read impossible meanings into 
half-heard sentences. But to return to the present situa¬ 
tion. If Jessamy chose to claim her money I might not 
be able to refuse it to her legally. The law has so many 
queer loopholes and barricades that one never knows 
where one may wriggle through successfully or where one 
will be stopped dead.” 

“ She won’t claim it. In that letter of hers she throws 





76 


MARSH LIGHTS 


it as a sop to you to let her alone. She’s crazy, of course. 
Only a high-flown, ignorant girl would have done what 
she’s done, rushed into this insane marriage, in order, as 
she says, to escape from us for ever. . . . Damned 

melodramatic, I call it. But she shan’t escape me. I’ll 
have her in the end, I tell you, if I have to wait ten 
years for her.” 

“ Dear Lucas, it is you who are melodramatic now, I 
think,” said Claire, with a calming gesture. “ Don’t 
build on such a possibility. There appears to be nothing 
whatever against the young man whom Jessamy has 
married. Mr. Heppel says he is quite presentable. The 
typically respectable bank-clerk, in fact, except for a 
certain exaltation of manner which, Mr. Heppel said, 
might be attributed to the excitement of the occasion.” 

Her words dropped cold as ice upon the heat of Grote’s 
irritation. 

“ I’d like to excite him,” he muttered thickly. 

“No doubt you would,” Claire answered, with a laugh 
as cool and tinkling as her words had been. “ But do 
let us look at the situation as dispassionately as possible.” 

“ I don’t see how one can be dispassionate in the cir¬ 
cumstances.” 

“ You don’t, perhaps. Our temperaments differ. We 
are typically North and South, you and I, Lucas. My 
anger smoulders. It does not flame. Yours-is posi¬ 

tively volcanic, dear man!” she finished with a little 
shrug. A glint, hard as glacier-ice, shone in her pale grey 
eyes. “ I do not like being tricked, flouted, defied any 
more than you do. I am angry with Jessamy. But for 
your sake I should be quite content to let her drop out 
of my life for ever and lie on the thorns of the bed she 
has made for herself.” 

“ You can’t do that, Claire. You are my only hope. 
You had great influence over her once. It can’t be 
entirely gone.” 

“ No,” said Claire musingly. “ I could twist her 



MOONLIGHT 


77 


round my little finger until she made that mad flight. 
Heavens, how frightened I was that night! She deserves 
to be punished for that.” 

“ Has this fellow Amber any money?” 

“ He has come in for a house and a small income lately, 
Mr. Heppel said. ‘ Enough to keep a wife,’ was all he 
told him. Jessamy appears to have been equally reticent. 
The whole affair puzzles me. I can’t understand it. Did 
she know the man before? Has she been deceiving us 
all along? It scarcely seems possible. She hardly ever 
went out without me. I knew all her friends. Her mind 
was an open book. She appeared to have no conceal¬ 
ments, no duplicities. It must have been one of her mad 
impulses.” 

“ Or his,” muttered Grote. 

“ He’s no fortune-hunter, anyhow.” 

“ Rot! Three hundred a year would be a fortune to a 
poverty-stricken bank clerk.” 

“ A widower, too,” breathed Claire. 

“ A widower? I didn’t know that.” 

“ Yes. Mr. Heppel told me that Jessamy flung this 
information at him as if it at once established the man’s 
respectability. ... So like the absurd thing Jessamy 
would say. She was always so full of ridiculous ideas.” 

“ That was part of her charm. . . . Her quaint 

unexpected little quips. . . . Oh, damn! ” 

“ Dear Lucas, don’t take it so hard.” Claire rose and 
stood beside him. She put one hand on his shoulder and 
stood looking at him, almost on a level, for an instant. 
“ I’m on your side always, remember. We can’t do 
anything for the moment. We don’t even know where 
she lives, but later on. ... I know Jessamy. She has 
been used to the flesh-pots of Egypt for too long not to 
miss them after a good dose of life as it is lived by the 
suburban bank clerk. We shall find her sooner or later, 
and then will come the time to act. Meanwhile, I shall 
write her a letter and send it to Mr. Heppel to be for- 


78 


MARSH LIGHTS 


warded. A tender reproachful letter that will move her 
to tears and repentance, if I know my Jessamy. She’s 
warm-hearted, affectionate-” 

“ God, as if I didn’t know that!” Grote groaned and 
hid his eyes upon his outstretched arms. 

Claire looked at him for an instant, a touch of con¬ 
tempt in the ice-green glint of her eyes. 

“ Do pull yourself together, Lucas. You’re a man, 
not a love-sick schoolboy.” 

He swung round to face her, his hands suddenly 
clenched. For a moment she thought that he was going 
to strike her. She did not move. The contempt in her 
eyes changed to amusement as his hands dropped to his 
sides. 

“ You’re right. I’ll remember. I aw a man, by God, 
and I mean to have my woman, by fair means or foul.” 

“ You’ve had an overdose of the pictures lately,” said 
Claire in her soft amused way. “ That would make a 
perfect sub-title for an emotional scene. No. . . . I’m 
not really laughing at you, Lucas. I’m only trying to 
help you to recover your self-respect. You won’t do that 
by being melodramatic.” 

Grote swerved away from the mantelpiece and strode 
to the window. Tudor Lodge stood in its own grounds, 
away from the road. In the garden beneath scillas 
nodded in blue delight round the base of a grey stone 
bird-bath. A thrush perched on the top-most bough of 
an almond tree above it, poured his full heart out in 
the rapture of his even-song. Purple and white crocuses 
edged the formal borders, in which daffodils already 
hung their heavy pondering buds above the brown earth. 
The evening sunlight shone upon the promise of spring: 
a promise which found no echo in the heavy heart of the 
man who looked through the window with drawn brows 
above unseeing eyes. 

Claire’s gaze followed him. She moved her chair 
nearer to the fire and sat down again, still flicking her 



MOONLIGHT 


79 


glance towards him now and then. The room was warm 
and sweet with the mingled scents of hyacinths and 
freesias. 

Claire liked strong, sensuous perfume in flowers. 
For herself she used only the suggestion of some subtle 
Parisian essence, faint yet characteristic. As she sat, 
her white hands played idly with the cut-jet ball that 
ended her chain, twisting it this way and that so that its 
facets caught red gleams from the firelight. She was 
content to wait until Grote had recaptured his self- 
control. 

Sooner than she had expected he turned from the 
window and came quietly towards her. She had been 
half afraid of an outburst after her jibe about the 
cinema. At times she still feared him a little as a strong 
woman will always fear the man who has once mastered 
her. But the wild beast in Lucas Grote was no longer 
uppermost. It was curbed into subjection and on its 
leash once more. His manner was at its normal, suave 
and controlled, when he spoke again. 

“ I don’t often treat you to a scene nowadays, do I, 
Clair-de-lune?” he asked, using a name of the old days, 
whose employment now generally meant that he wanted 
to propitiate her. “ But you must admit that the cir¬ 
cumstances are unusual.” 

“ Quite. It’s better to get it all out at once. Sit down 
again. Smoke if you like. There’s a box of Coronas 
over there on the cabinet. Let us talk this over quietly. 
I don’t wonder that you feel sore.” 

Grote went to the cabinet, selected a cigar, prepared 
and lit it meticulously. The half mechanical, wholly 
ordinary process seemed to steady him, as Claire had 
intended it to do. Meanwhile, her voice flowed on 
soothingly. 

“ There is no need for histrionics or heroics. Our 
role is hurt surprise and bitter disappointment. Heaven 
knows that’s true enough.” Claire sighed, not acknowl- 


80 


MARSH LIGHTS 


edging in her inmost heart a faint relief that Lucas had 
not yet married Jessamy. 

Only she herself knew how slight was her real power 
over the man who still held the only fragment of her 
love which she had ever been able to detach from herself. 
When he married Jessamy that slender grasp would be 
wrenched away for ever. Only the cruder power of the 
money with which he bribed her would be left to her. 
Power was Claire Wyatt’s god, monetary or otherwise 
That was why she had married Edmund Wyatt anc 
attached his fledging daughter to her. That was whj 
she had fostered her former lover’s sudden mad passion 
for the girl. That was why she was ready to fall in 
with his plans for her recapture. 

“ Ours must be the noble, the disinterested gesture. 
The money question mustn’t enter into it at all,” she 
continued. “ To judge by Mr. Heppel’s account over 
the ’phone, there is something odd about this marriage 
of Jessamy’s. We have only to wait, to be circumspect 
and even generous, and all will yet be well.” 

Grote caught a little of her certainty. Her quiet 
assurance excited him. Claire was always far-sighted. 

“ Divorce — it can be arranged without much diffi¬ 
culty later, if she’s willing. . . . Then, on our wedding 
day you will restore to Jessamy her thousand a year 
and I will settle the same amount on you for life,” Grote 
declared. “ That promise holds.” 

“ Dear Lucas, that is very generous of you,” smiled 
Claire, with an inward appreciation of the subtle irony 
of thus arranging Jessamy’s future on the actual day of 
her marriage to another man. “ I am glad that you 
agree with me about the waiting policy. It is our only 
chance, believe me. Jessamy must be left to recover 
from this absurd fright of hers. My letter must be given 
time to sink in. She must feel perfectly ‘ safe ’ as she 
so ridiculously puts it, before we can venture on a fresh 
move of any kind. Much depends on this wretched bank 


MOONLIGHT 


81 


clerk with whom she has rushed so wildly into matri¬ 
mony. He is the unknown factor in the case. I wonder 
if he’s bribable?” 

“ Every man has his price,” quoted Grote. “ I fancy 
I’m rich enough to buy him if necessary, though I’d 
rather wring the beggar’s neck.” 

“ There’s no acquittal for a crime passionel in this 
countiy, I’m afraid,” Claire began, with her slow smile, 
stopping abruptly as the door opened to admit a smart 
parlour maid. 

“ Yes, what is it, Barton?” she asked rather sharply, 
annoyed at the interruption. 

“ A gentleman wishes to know if you will see him, 
madam.” 

“ I can’t see any one at this hour. It must be seven 
o’clock.” 

“ The hall clock has just struck the hour. Am I to 
say that you are engaged, madam?” 

“ Yes. No, wait a minute. Perhaps he’s some one 
from Mr. Heppel. Didn’t he give you a card?” 

“ No, madam. He gave his name, though. He said 
to ask you if you would be good enough to see Mr. Yule 
Amber for a few minutes.” 

“That fellow!” Grote made a step forward, his face 
suddenly suffused. 

Claire laid her hand on his arm and spoke in a low 
rapid tone. 

“ Stop, Lucas. Don’t you know that this is the very 
opportunity we were wishing for? . . . You mustn’t 
see him. You’d blunder — very naturally — and spoil 
everything. Go into the study and don’t come back 
until I send for you.” She turned to the maid. 
“ Tell Mr. Amber that I will see him for a moment.” 
When Barton had gone she gave Grote a little push 
towards the door. “ Go quickly. Leave this to me. 
I’ll manage.” 

Grote’s angry eyes softened, took on a dog-like appeal. 


82 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ You were always rather wonderful, you know, Clair- 
de-lune.” 

“ Oh, do go,” she cried with rare impatience. 

XVII 

As the door closed behind him Claire turned quickly 
to the mirror. 

“ I am looking far too well for the part of the heart¬ 
broken mother,” she decided. 

With a swiftness unexpected in one of her large pro¬ 
portions she opened a black brocade bag which hung on 
the arm of her chair and extracted from it a powder-puff 
and a blue eye-pencil, with which she skilfully deepened 
the shadows beneath her eyes and added artistically to 
her natural pallor. 

Pencil and puff were scarcely back in the bag when the 
door opened behind her. 

“ Mr. Amber,” announced Barton, looking at the 
unexpected visitor with a lively curiosity. 

Claire turned with a graceful, dignified movement, to 
see a thin, very bright-eyed young man, with reddish 
hair and a long characteristic mouth, facing her ner¬ 
vously. His blue serge suit was new and tolerably well 
cut. He held a grey velours hat tightly clasped in 
strained-looking fingers. 

She bowed. “ You are Mr. Amber?” 

“ Yes. I am Yule Amber.” 

“ You cannot expect me to give you a very warm 
welcome, Mr. Amber,” Claire said rather coldly. “ You 
wished to see me?” She paused, awaiting his explana¬ 
tion. She was desirous of placing him at as great a dis¬ 
advantage as possible. 

A slight flush showed on Yule’s rather prominent 
cheek bones. 

“ Yes. I felt that it wasn’t fair-” he began, then 

stopped. 



MOONLIGHT 


83 


“You felt that it wasn’t fair-?” Claire echoed 

with raised eyebrows. Then unbending a little, “ Won’t 
you sit down, Mr. Amber? There is no need to make 
this interview any more unpleasant than it must of 
necessity be.” 

“ No,” said Yule in rather a choked voice. 

This beautiful pale woman with circles of suffering 
beneath her grey eyes was very unlike the dominating 
personality of Jessamy’s description, the smooth intri¬ 
gante she had pictured for him. 

The mingled emotions — anger, defiance, pity, a sense 
of fair play — which had fired him to the task of con¬ 
fronting Mrs. Wyatt on this, the evening of his strange 
wedding-day, suddenly fused into one alone — pity. 

Surely Jessamy had been mistaken. Here was no 
intriguing plotter, but a woman such as the girl had 
originally thought her, and whom she had made suffer 
cruelly by her escapade. That was self-evident in the 
pallor of her face and the weariness of her eyes. 

Claire would have been amused could she have read 
his thoughts and seen the swift effect of her artistic 
touches. She sat there, calmly enjoying his embarrass¬ 
ment, and doing nothing to relieve it. She had not often 
so delicious an opportunity of playing cat to such a 
mouse. 

“ I can’t help feeling sorry for her,” thought the un¬ 
conscious Yule, unaware that he had mounted his Peg¬ 
asus once more and was preparing to soar to the stars. 
. . . Nanetty would have known and trembled, had 

she seen him. . . . “ Although I am my Jessamy’s 

man for life and death that needn’t prevent me from 

being sorry for Mrs. Wyatt too- For ‘ to be wroth 

with one we love, Doth work like madness in the 
brain!’ ” 

Self forgotten, anger lost in sympathy, he plunged 
forthwith into an explanation of his errand. “ I quite 
realize that it can’t be pleasant for you to see me, 




84 


MARSH LIGHTS 


Mrs. Wyatt. I only came to reassure you as to Jessamy’s 
safety.” 

“ Mr. Heppel had already done that, thank you,” re¬ 
turned Claire, in a tone whose artistic coolness hid the 
fact of her satisfaction with the impression she was 
making. “ Also Jessamy herself in a letter which — 
yes, I must say it — cut me to the heart, Mr. Amber.” 
Her voice trembled as she turned away her head with a 
swift hurt movement that again touched Yule to sym¬ 
pathy. 

“ I was afraid it would,” he cried regretfully. 
“ Jessamy ” — he loved the very sound of her name and 
delighted in saying it — “is very young, very impulsive. 
Also she is dreadfully sore and shaken at the deception 
which she thinks has been practised on her.” 

“ Was it necessary for me to tell her that I had once 
been engaged to her fiance?” interrupted Claire, with a 
show of passion. 

“ It would have been wiser, I think,” said Yule 
gently. ... An engagement? . . . Surely Jes¬ 

samy had hinted at deeper, darker things than that! 
Could she have been mistaken? If so, their marriage 
was without point or meaning. . . . That did not 

bear thinking of just yet. 

“ Wiser? Wisdom is proverbially difficult of attain¬ 
ment,” cried Claire. “ The whole affair came about so 
suddenly, was so idyllic that I don’t think I can be 
blamed if I refrained from doing anything to spoil the 
romance of it. I was only anxious that Jessamy should 
enjoy its untarnished beauty to the full. So anxious that 
I committed the apparently unforgivable sin of omission. 
I held my peace — justifiably, I thought, and still think 
— about the boy and girl engagement that had once 
existed between Lucas Grote and me.” 

“ Why didn’t you marry him?” Yule blurted out. 

“ Because we were too poor. In those days he was 
not the successful business man that he is now. He was 


MOONLIGHT 


85 


only a stockbroker’s clerk. His fortune on the Stock 
Exchange had yet to be made. I myself — you see, I am 
being perfectly frank with you, Mr. Amber, though I 
admit no need for self-justification — I myself was a 
penniless girl with no worldly assets save my looks and 
my small talents. For many years I earned my own 
living as a diseuse — the French word is prettier than 
the English one, don’t you think?” she broke off with 
rather a pathetic smile. 

“ Yes,” answered Yule nervously. “ Please don’t 
think that I wish to force any explanations, but as 
Jessamy’s husband-” 

“ Ah, yes,” sighed Claire, half closing her eyes. 
“ There lies the bitter tragedy of the whole unfortunate 
affair. You cannot but be aware, Mr. Amber, that the 
poor misguided child has only used you as a means of 
escape from fancied dangers.” She awaited rather 
anxiously an answer which did not come from Yule’s 
tightly-locked lips. The truth of her thrust had pierced 
his very heart. 

“ How long have you known her, may I ask?” Mrs. 
Wyatt pursued with a scarcely perceptible frown. 

“Long enough to be ready to stand by her through 
thick and thin,” declared Yule stoutly. Here was his 
ideal, his justification for his rashness. The very thought 
of it filled him with a new courage. 

“Ah!” breathed Claire. “The foolish child seems to 
have the faculty of inspiring romantic devotion. Poor 
Lucas . . she stopped abruptly with a deep sigh, 

as if overcome by some unexpressed emotion. 

Yule moved uncomfortably in his chair. The sorrows 
of the man whom he had supplanted had no real power 
to prick his conscience, though Mrs. Wyatt’s implica¬ 
tions caused him a certain disquietude. He looked at 
her, anxiety in his eyes. 

“ It is too late to go into that now, Mrs. Wyatt. 
Jessamy and I are married. It must have been a great 



86 


MARSH LIGHTS 


shock to you to hear this. You couldn’t have known 
what sort of man I was, how I might use her. That is 
what I came to tell you, to let you know. ... I 
put it awkwardly, I’m afraid. I’m no phrase-maker. 
. . . But I — I care for Jessamy,” he broke out 

suddenly. “ It will be my — my highest privilege and 
honour to take care of her, to stand between her and the 
world, to make her as happy as I possibly can. I had 
to tell you that. I couldn’t sleep tonight without letting 
you know it.” 

“ That was — kind of you, Mr. Amber.” 

“ Whatever your differences may have been, I couldn’t 
help feeling that you, too, cared for her, that you would 
be anxious to see what manner of man she had married, 
to assure yourself that I was neither a cad, a bully nor 
a fortune-hunter. . . . I’m not any of the three, 
really,” he ended with a smile of singular sweetness. 
“ But you couldn’t have known that, so I had to come 
and tell you.” 

“No, I couldn’t have known that,” echoed Claire 
Wyatt in a curious tone. “ Is Jessamy aware that you’ve 
come here this evening?” 

Yule’s face changed. “ Not yet. She’s — she’s over¬ 
wrought, over-tired from the events of the last few 
days. I was afraid of upsetting her if I told her before¬ 
hand. I know she would have tried to prevent me from 
coming — and how could I gainsay her on her wedding- 
day? . . . But things are going to be straight 

between us always,” he said in a tone that rang. “I’ll 
tell her the moment I get back, if she’s awake.” 

“ Awake?” 

“Yes. She was tired out, poor child, as I told you. 
I left her at home in charge of my cousin, who said she 
would put her straight to bed.” 

Claire stared at him for a moment. 

“ A strange wedding-day, truly,” she said, in rather a 
dry tone. 


MOONLIGHT 


87 


Yule smiled at her. “Yes, isn’t it? . . . But I 
like things out of the ordinary, don’t you? I’ve only 
just stepped out of a deep groove, and I’m never going 
back to one again.” 

Claire opened her lips as if to speak: then suddenly 
changed the form of her sentence. 

“ May I ask what is your income, Mr. Amber?” 

“ Five hundred a year and a house,” he answered with 
an absurd pride. 

Claire cleverly curbed a smile to a mere twitching of 
her long thin lips. 

“Ah! . . . Then with Jessamy’s three hundred a 

year your joint annual income will amount to eight hun¬ 
dred pounds! ... A positive fortune!” 

“ Yes, isn’t it?” answered Yule simply. 

Claire Wyatt’s lips twitched again, then smoothed 
themselves to gravity. 

“ Are you going to tell me where you live?” 

“ No, Mrs. Wyatt, not without Jessamy’s consent.” 
Yule felt adamantine as he made this answer. Jessamy 
should not say that her step-mother had “ got ” him yet. 

“ Will you do me a favour, Mr. Amber?” Claire’s tone 
was low and sweetly pleading. 

“ A hundred, if only I can,” answered Yule eagerly. 

“ Will you try to disabuse the poor child’s mind of 
this monstrous delusion about Lucas and me?” said 
Claire with a deep earnestness that impressed Yule in 
spite of himself. 

“ If you assure me on your honour-” 

“ On my honour, Mr. Amber. Why should he or I 
wish to deceive her? He is heart-broken, poor man, and 
as for me — I can’t tell you how I’ve suffered.” 

“ I am sorry-” 

“ Prove your sympathy by trying to persuade Jessamy 
that she is making some dreadful mistake about what 
she imagines she overheard that evening.” 

“ I’ll do my best.” 



88 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“All I want is just to be friends with her again. I 
am content to wait. I have no wish to force myself on 
her. I know quite well that with young people every¬ 
thing is either jet-black or snow-white. They admit no 
gradations between the two, as we older people have 
learned to do.” 

Most skilfully she placed Yule Amber on her own 
plane. “ I am quite ready to concede that Jessamy 
has a grievance in this slight deception we have practised 
on her-” 

“ It wasn’t a slight deception for her.” 

“ She has magnified it into an obsession.” 

“ Obsession or no, she has had a shock from which it 
will take her some time to recover. The bitterest thing 
in the world is to be deceived by those whom you love 
best, no matter in how slight a degree. There is no 
other disillusionment like it, especially when one is too 
young, as you say, to see things in their true perspective. 
The very best way to help Jessamy to recover her poise 
is to leave her unworried, where she is, amongst new 
people and in absolutely new surroundings.” 

“ I assure you that neither Lucas Grote nor I have 
the slightest desire to worry Jessamy,” returned Claire 
with dignity. 

“ I’m sure you haven’t,” Yule hastened to say. He 
rose. “ There is no use in inflicting myself any longer 
on you, Mrs. Wyatt. It was good of you to receive me 
and to listen to me so graciously.” 

Graciously? . . . Claire smiled. There was the 

desired impression already created, graciousness, pa¬ 
tience, wounded feelings held under restraint. She rose, 
too, and extended her hand. 

“I did not realize when I decided to admit you that 
our interview would leave me with so much an easier 
mind, Mr. Amber. . . . You have my address. If 

ever you or Jessamy should wish to write to me or come 
to see me you know where to find me. I shall always be 



MOONLIGHT 89 

ready to let bygones be bygones whenever you may elect 
to do so.” 

“ It is scarcely a matter for my decision,” Yule began 
rather awkwardly. 

“ But I trust you, Mr. Amber, to do your best with 
Jessamy.” 

“ I can at least promise you that.” 

“If there is anything I can do-” Claire looked 

about her suggestively at the rich comfort of her sur¬ 
roundings. “ Probably in your more restricted menage 
Jessamy will not have all that she has been accustomed 
to-” 

“ She will be none the worse for that,” Yule cut in 
with a firmness that surprised his hearer. “ We shall 
have enough to supply our needs and give us all the 
things that really matter. That is, as far as money can 
procure those — which isn’t very far, as I daresay you 
know.” 

“ Money?” echoed Claire, slightly puzzled. . . . 

What a fool the man was! There were few things which 
money couldn’t buy. “ Money is power, Mr. Amber.” 

“ Only over material things. It can’t buy any of the 
essentials.” 

“ What are they?” 

Yule smiled. “ Now you are condescending to laugh 
at me, Mrs. Wyatt. A woman like you must have 
found out what are the essentials of life long ago.” 

“ Power,” rose to Claire Wyatt’s lips, but she did not 
voice her thought. “ Power and money, two wings of 
the same bird!” 

She smiled questioningly at Yule, but said nothing, 
letting her eyes speak for her. 

Yule answered quickly. “ The great secret of living, 
as no doubt you know, is to find out the things that 
really matter and the things that don’t, and to eliminate 
the latter.” 

“ Quite,” said Claire non-committally. She moved 



90 


MARSH LIGHTS 


towards the door, as if to indicate that their interview 
was at an end. “ Then I can trust you to be kind to my 
poor, wild, impulsive Jessamy?” 

“ Kind?” Yule gave a queer excited little laugh and 
his eyes shone suddenly. “ She’s my Jessamy from 
today. ... Yes. ... I think you can trust 
me to be at least kind to her. Surely kindness is one of 
the things that matter.” 

“ How true!” sighed Claire. “Will you let yourself 
out, Mr. Amber?” 

She was anxious for him to go. She did not want to 
linger in the hall lest Lucas Grote should suddenly 
appear. She dared not risk an encounter between the 
two men at such a critical moment in their affairs. It 
would wreck the trembling poise of her delicate re¬ 
adjustments. 

“ Certainly, Mrs. Wyatt. Good-bye again, and thank 
you for your courteous reception of an unwelcome 
intruder.” 

Claire Wyatt surprised herself by calling impulsively 
after him: “You will never be that again, Mr. Amber.” 

Yule turned and smiled at her. 

“ Once more, my warmest thanks.” 

XVIII 

Yule Amber was gone. 

As Claire went slowly back to the secluded warmth of 
the drawing-room a little shiver shook her. She felt 
suddenly cold and tired, and knew that the reaction had 
come after the strain of the past few days. She took 
up the poker and stirred the fire to a blaze; then bent 
and held her hands towards it, looking at them idly. 

Yes, they were well-shaped hands, although they were 
decidedly larger than she would have wished. She was 
a student of hands, knowing what an asset, or otherwise, 
they were on the lesser stage, as well as on the great 


MOONLIGHT 


91 


stage of life. Jessamy’s hands, for instance, were slim 
and pretty: hands whose possibilities had not yet been 
exploited. Lucas Grote’s, strong, masculine, hairy, 
could easily be cruel. Yule Amber’s were long and 
sensitive and rather bony: still, for all that, they could 
touch gently, she imagined. Her own — she looked at 
them again and noted the rose-red beauty of the flame- 
light seen through her closed fingers. They were hands 
of character, she decided: powerful hands: smooth, subtle 
hands. Just the sort of hands that should be hers. 

Dusk had fallen without, and shadows filled the room 
outside the radius of the leaping firelight, which struck 
dancing butterflies of reflections from the gleam of glass 
and china and old polished furniture. 

A belated flute-like note from the thrush, now flown to 
an elm, made Claire turn suddenly to look out of the 
window. Through its wide upper pane she caught sight 
of a silver crescent floating in a pale green sky. 

She shivered again, then shrugged her shoulders at her 
own folly. 

“ Has any one ever really traced any bad luck to see¬ 
ing the new moon through glass?” she wondered, lean¬ 
ing a little closer to the fire. “ But what a day it has 
been! First, Mr. Heppel’s news of Jessamy’s mad mar¬ 
riage, then Jessamy’s dreadful letter, then the scene with 
Lucas and finally this Amber man! . . . No, not 

finally, I’m afraid. There’ll be Lucas again. . . . 

No, not that yet. We must have dinner first. I’ll ring 
and tell them to hurry it up.” 

She pressed the bell near the fireplace. A moment 
later Barton appeared and stood expectant near the 
door. 

“ You rang, madam?” 

“ Yes. Tell Cook to serve dinner as soon as it’s 
ready.” 

“ Yes, madam. That will be in a few minutes I think. 
It’s just on eight now.” 


92 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ Really?” Claire had not realized the quick passage 
of time. “ Tell Mr. Grote that I am disengaged. He 
is in the library.” 

“ Very good, madam.” 

Mrs. Wyatt was well served. It was seldom that 
caprice was allowed to interfere with the ordered routine 
of the house. It would not do so now, though its 
mistress imagined that her word was law; for the auto¬ 
crat of the kitchen was not to be hastened from her 
appointed hours at the last moment by any other auto¬ 
crat, however powerful. 

Claire had a momentary wish, as foolish as it was 
unlikely to be fulfilled, that Lucas Grote might, on some 
sudden umbrage, have left the house, and so spared her 
the forthcoming inevitable scene. 

“ Lucas is all broad, crude effects,” she mused. “ He 
has no nuances. Now, the other man has nuances. 
. . . Still, Jessamy is scarcely subtle enough to appre¬ 

ciate that. ... I wonder where she came across 

him . . . where, when or how they drifted together- 

Ah, Lucas!” 

The door had opened suddenly. Lucas Grote strode 
in and faced her rather truculently. She bit her lip. 
She knew that mood. 

“ Well?” he asked impatiently. “ What’s the fellow’s 
price?” 

Claire looked up and shook her head. Certainly Lucas 
was crude! 

“ If he has one I haven’t discovered it yet,” she said, 
surprised at an inward tinge of resentment at the ques¬ 
tion. 

Lucas took up his favourite position before the fire 
and stood there confronting her. 

“ All his actions are typical and easily foreseen,” 
Claire thought, a smile curving her long lips. “ Now 
that Amber man is, at least, unexpected. In his own 
way, too, he’s just as masculine as Lucas. Not animal 



MOONLIGHT 93 

male, perhaps. . . . Human male. . . . Queer 

creations!” 

“ You mean, then, that he’s more fool than knave?” 
demanded Lucas. 

“ That’s one way of putting it.” 

“ Isn’t it the right way?” 

“I — suppose so.” 

“ Hang it all, Claire, what do you mean? Can’t 
you see that I’m on fire, consuming with impatience? 
Your coolness maddens me!” 

“My ice and your fire! . . . Poor Lucas!” She 

mocked him delicately. “ I suppose, crudely speaking, 
that you’re right. Yule Amber is decidedly more fool 
than knave, though, mind you, I don’t really admit that 
he’s either.” 

“ What did he come here for? Bluster, brag, black¬ 
mail?” 

“Oh, my dear Lucas, don’t be so alliterative!” cried 
Claire, feeling almost hysterical. “ He came purely to 
relieve my feelings and to tell me that the man Jessamy 
had married was neither a cad, a bully nor a fortune- 
hunter!” 

“ The man Jessamy — but wasn’t it-?” 

“ Of course it was he himself. That was only my way 
of putting it,” returned Claire rather sharply. “ The 
whole affair puzzles me, Lucas. The man is obviously in 
love with Jessamy-” 

“Damn his insolence!” 

“ He means to be good to her,” Claire continued more 
calmly. “ He has promised to do his best to make peace 
between us.” 

“ The deuce he has!” 

“ But he wouldn’t tell me where he lives, nor will he 
let me see Jessamy until she herself wishes it. . . . 

They will have eight hundred a year between them.” 
She paused suggestively. 

“ A goodly income,” sneered Grote. 




94 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ He thinks it a fortune. Honestly, he does, Lucas.” 

“ That shows the pettiness of his outlook,” exclaimed 
Grote, his brow clearing. “ If you’re right about 
Jessamy being a little Sybarite we’ll have her back 
again before very long. 1 Plain living and high think¬ 
ing ’ is all very well for a time by way of a change, but 
she’ll soon tire of it, especially as she can’t even care for 
the fellow. She can’t. I swear it. I know. . . . 

She . . . I-” He broke off, flushing darkly. 

“ I know. I know,” said Claire, with a soothing touch 
on his arm. “ At any rate I have done my best. I have 
completely disarmed this Amber man. I have told him 
a story of our little affair with sufficient truth in it to 
make it sound thoroughly convincing. I think that I 
even detected in his face a sudden qualm about this 
impossible marriage. . . . But don’t build too much 

on that. It quickly vanished. . . . The man’s an 

enthusiast, an idealist, rather.” 

“ Then he certainly must be a fool. The two are 
synonymous,” grunted Grote. 

“ Perhaps you’re right,” sighed Claire softly. 

“ I know I am.” 

“ Dinner is served, madam,” said Barton, appearing 
noiselessly. 

Claire drew a long breath of relief and rose with 
eagerness. 

“ I don’t think I was ever more glad to hear it,” she 
said. 

She went over to Grote and slipped her hand through 
his arm. 

“ I think we had better have a bottle of Pommery to 
celebrate the occasion,” she said almost gaily. “ We 
can drink a speedy disillusionment to our bride and 
bridegroom and a happy issue out of our present 
impasse.” 

Even as she looked into Grote’s lowering face and saw 
it soften at her toast, a phrase of Yule Amber’s came 



MOONLIGHT 95 

back to her mind, ringing in her ears with the insistence 
of a bell. 

“Surely kindness is one of the things that matter!” 

Was it kind-? She shook off the thought impa¬ 

tiently as she went into dinner. 

XIX 

“ 1 know by the look in your eyes that you have been 
doing something foolish,” declared Nanetty as she faced 
Yule across the debris of the supper-table. They had 
fenced with each other pleasantly until now, on this most 
difficult of occasions. 

“ It all depends on what you call foolish,” Yule coun¬ 
tered with a provoking smile. “ Come, old thing, use 
your usual clairvoyance and tell me what it was.” 

“Clairvoyance! . . . Claire! ... I believe 
I know,” she cried on a note of triumph. 

“Well, I couldn’t help it!” Yule threw down the 
glove and challenged her to pick it up. “ It wasn’t fair 
to her, no matter how badly she had behaved to Jessamy, 
not to let her know that she hadn’t got into bad hands.” 

“ What an involved sentence!” mocked Nanetty, lean¬ 
ing her elbows on the table and putting her chin on her 
hands. “ Disentangling one 1 she ’ from another how did 
you convey that interesting piece of information to 
Mrs. Wyatt?” 

“ I just told her that I wasn’t either a cad, a bully or 
a fortune-hunter and that I meant to take good care of 
Jessamy.” 

“Oh!” breathed Nanetty, her shrewd eyes softening 
to tenderness. “ And did she believe you?” 

“ I hope so.” 

“And you gave her our address and asked her to 
come to tea?” 

“No. To breakfast tomorrow!” Yule answered in 
the same vein. “ Look here, Nanetty, Mrs. Wyatt told 
me that she and this man Grote were once engaged. 


96 


MARSH LIGHTS 


They couldn’t get married because they were too poor. 
They didn’t tell Jessamy anything about it because Mrs. 
Wyatt said she — she didn’t want to do anything that 
might spoil her — Jessamy’s idyll.” 

“ Where ignorance is bliss, ’Tis folly to be wise,” 
quoted Nanetty dryly. “ That’s a different version from 
Jessamy’s. A considerable bowdlerized edition.” 

“ Nanetty, don’t you think that Jessamy may have 
been mistaken, may have misunderstood what she over¬ 
heard? When a young girl is — is in love she’s apt to 
be frightfully jealous, isn’t she? — and to magnify mole¬ 
hills into mountains and — and to imagine all sorts of 
things? . . . What do you think, Nanetty?” 

“ I think that Mrs. Wyatt must be a clever woman.” 

“ You don’t believe in her, then?” 

“ No.” 

“ But Nanetty, if you’d only seen her! She looked 
so pale, so unhappy — just as if she’d been crying her 
poor eyes out. There were tears in them as she spoke 
to me of Jessamy and told me how miserable she had 
been about her.” 

“ Very likely her conscience pricked her.” 

“ Nanetty! How can you be so hard, so uncharitable? 
It isn’t like you.” 

“ It’s very like me, my dear, if you only realized it,” 
retorted Nanetty with a little shrug of her crooked 
shoulder. “ You’re apt to be a bit of a nuisance, you 
know, Yule, when you mount your hobby-horse of Duty. 
You think it’s Pegasus and that it’s going to bear you 
to the stars, but it isn’t, really, and it doesn’t. It only 
lands you in all sorts of awkward and probably muddy 
places. It’s not going to plump you down by that poor 
girl to-night and make you tell her of the family con¬ 
clave, I hope?” 

“ Do you really think I’d better not?” asked Yule 
disappointedly. “ I want to have everything absolutely 
straight between us from the beginning.” 


MOONLIGHT 


97 


Nanetty groaned. “If you want Jessamy to have a 
wakeful, wretched night tell her by all means.” 

“ Pig-dog, why are you so cross?” asked Yule, 
stretching out his hand to her. 

Nanetty blinked rapidly. “ I’m tired, I expect. I’m 
always cross when I’m tired. . . . Yule, I’ve 

arranged with Mrs. Daylight to come here and live in for 
the present. She is very pleased, as she was worrying 
about our future without her. She foresaw either gaol 
or the workhouse for us, I fancy, without her restraining 
influence!” 

Nanetty tried to speak with ordinary cheerfulness, but 
she really felt desperately tired and anxious about that 
future at which she seemed to mock. Only in the normal, 
the commonplace did safety lie, to her over-strained per¬ 
ceptions. The exigencies of the move and all the previous 
preparations had exhausted her physically. The bewilder¬ 
ing uncertainty of the result of Yule’s wild leap in the 
dark, the disappointment of this triangular menage, beset 
with difficulties as it was, tried her emotionally and 
mentally to the very limit of her endurance. 

“Good!” Yule returned absently. “Hadn’t you 
better see about getting some sort of maid as well? You 
won’t have time-” 

“No, I shan’t have time. I am in arrears with my 
work for old Brand already. . . . But that’s not my 
business any more, Yule. It’s Jessamy’s.” 

“ Jessamy’s? Oh, but-” 

“ Now, my dear Yule, don’t continue the bad work 
of spoiling that girl. She has married you and conse¬ 
quently taken certain responsibilities upon herself. If 
she isn’t capable of carrying them out at present the 
sooner she trains herself to become so, the better for you 
both. If you are to have any chance of happiness in 
your future life you’ve got to build it up between you: 
and you’ve got to start at once, mind! Happiness won’t 
fall ready-made into your laps if you only sit down 



98 


MARSH LIGHTS 


and wait for it. You’ve got to earn it. You’ve got to 
work for it. For goodness sake, give Jessamy plenty 
of occupation. She has thrust herself into a way of 
living which is entirely new to her. It’s up to you to 
make it as interesting, as absorbing as you can.” 

“ How on earth am I to do that? You must help me, 
Nanetty.” 

“Find out her wants and will and meet her there!” 
misquoted Nanetty, with a twisted little smile. “ Perhaps 
eventually you’ll be able to mould her nearer to your 
heart’s desire! I’m sure I hope so.” 

“ She couldn’t be any nearer to my heart’s desire than 
she is at present,” thought Yule, with an instant vision 
of the appealing loveliness that had captured both 
heart and senses: but he could not say so, even to 
Nanetty. 

“ This is my last chance of sermonizing at you,” 
Nanetty pursued. “ After to-night I become a mere 
onlooker at the game, which you’ve got to play your¬ 
selves, remember. That doesn’t mean that I’m not ready 
to take my usual share of the household duties and to 
help you and Jessamy in any way I can, but from to¬ 
morrow I resign my keys of office. I am mistress of your 
house no longer.” She paused for a moment. Yule was 
unaware of the poignance of her abdication. He did not 
know that it was a throne, albeit an acknowledged 
temporary one, from which she stepped down with such 
a hard-won dignity. “ To-morrow Jessamy must take 
her proper place as your wife, and see to things herself.” 

It was rather an anti-climax, but Yule did not know 
that either. 

He only smiled and asked: “ Have you prepared poor 
Jessamy for the fate in store for her?” 

“ In a way. When you were out on your mysterious 
errand.” 

“ How did she take it?” 

“ She demurred at first, quite charmingly, I admit — 


MOONLIGHT 


99 


but I think in her inmost heart she was rather pleased. 
She is used to being a person of importance, you know,” 
Nanetty reminded him dryly. “ I’m going to give her 
her breakfast in bed to-morrow, but after that she’s got 
to get up and order her own life.” 

“ And what is the martinet herself going to do?” 

“ Finish my Dutch pictures for old Brand, and then 
start on the Italian ones.” 

“ What a treadmill! It must be a deadly grind.” 

“ It is, rather . . . but one has to earn one’s bread 
and butter, and I can’t afford to quarrel with my Brand!” 

“ I suppose not. . . . How long is it since you’ve 
seen Jessamy?” 

“ Not since I brought down her supper-tray. I expect 
she’s asleep by this.” 

Nanetty looked at him and away again. She was 
unable to voice the aching sympathy that mingled with 
the sense of exasperation she felt for him. Wide and 
free as their speech ranged there yet were things between 
them which could not be said. 

“ If she’s asleep I suppose I might just have a look at 
her,” Yule suggested tentatively, his eyes saying more 
than his words. 

“ I don’t suppose there could be any objection to that,” 
Nanetty answered with a twist of her lip. “ Just give me 
a hand with these supper-things, Yule. We’ll leave them 
in the kitchen till the morning for Mrs. Daylight to wash 
up.” 

Yule was as deft at such domesticities as she, and in 
a few minutes the table was cleared. 

“ I found old Henry’s silver candlestick to-day and put 
a fresh candle in it for you, Yule. It’s in the hall. Light 
it, will you.” 

Yule went out into the half-familiar hall. On the 
mahogany hat-stand stood the candlestick in its accus¬ 
tomed place. He had often noticed it there for its master 
nu former visits. Now the old order had changed. 


100 


MARSH LIGHTS 


Henry Nimmo was dead and Yule Amber reigned in his 
stead. 

His was the quaint old house, full of heavy Victorian 
furniture. For him the candlestick waited in the hall. 
When he was gone another would take his place. 

For a moment Yule had a vision of the great unceasing 
procession of life, inevitable, unwavering as the yearly 
march of the seasons, into which he and his had been 
swept to take their places until they, too, in their turn 
dropped out only to be instantly replaced. 

The match flared while Yule paused on the thought. 
He lit the candle just before it burned his fingers, locked 
the hall-door and put out the gas. 

Nanetty was already half way upstairs. 

“ Nanetty!” he called in a careful yet excited whisper. 

“ Yes, Yule.” She turned towards him, her pale face 
with its red wings of hair standing out against the dusk 
of the staircase. 

“ Old thing, I believe we’ve come home!” he answered 
boyishly. 

“I wish to God I could think so!” was Nanetty’s 
thought. Aloud she said in her most matter-of-fact tone, 
“ Well, it looks rather like it, doesn’t it?” 

Not even for Yule’s sake could she be enthusiastic 
to-night. 

XX 

Nanetty stopped outside the door of Jessamy’s bed¬ 
room and took the candle from Yule’s hand. She opened 
the door softly and went in. 

The room was in darkness. From the passage outside 
where he stood, a-thrill with excitement, Yule could only 
discern the half-illumined figure of his cousin as she 
moved gently towards the bed. She bent over it, then 
turned and beckoned to him. 

With thudding pulses he entered, feeling as if he should 
have taken off his shoes first. 


MOONLIGHT 


101 


Already the room seemed redolent of Jessamy’s per¬ 
sonality. The candle-light fell on little lavender satin 
mules by the chair near her bed. The cobweb lace of 
the filmy garment she wore was threaded with lavender 
ribbons. 

But Yule had no eye for the detail of slipper or lingerie. 
He sensed only the mystery, the exquisite aroma of the 
femininity which had so surprisingly given itself into his 
keeping. He had eyes only for the lovely curve of the 
recumbent figure in old Henry Nimmo’s four-post bed 
whose faded green chintz hangings had once belonged 
to a mutual grandmother. 

Jessamy lay on her side, one hand under her cheek, the 
other lying outside the bedclothes, its fingers curling, 
rose-tipped as the petals of flowers. Her hair was loose 
about the pillow, its dark abundant waves instinct with 
life. Her lashes made black curves across her cheeks. 
She looked very young, as she lay there, pathetically un¬ 
aware of their scrutiny. 

Yule forgot time, space, circumstance, as he gazed, 
painting upon his inner vision a memory that was to com¬ 
panion him later throughout his solitary wedding-night. 

So beautiful a shell must surely encase an equally 
beautiful spirit, he thought in his rapt gazing. . . . 

What mysteries were here, prisoned within the cage of a 
body, through whose five momentarily-shuttered windows 
the soul peered out? 

Would he ever approach, ever commingle with that 
strange, secret life of the spirit which even those who are 
nearest and dearest never wholly share? . . . What 

hidden capacities for love, joy, sorrow, suffering lay 
within that mortal fragility? 

He burned with a fire of desire to stand ever between 
it and aught that would do it hurt, bodily or spiritually: 
yet even with the thought came a swift reminder of the 
inevitable inner loneliness of every human being. From 
hurts bodily he might be able to defend her: from hurts 


102 


MARSH LIGHTS 


spiritual none could protect her save God and her own 
soul. 

As Amber looked at Jessamy so Nanetty looked at 
him. As he burned to shield his new-made wife, who yet 
was no wife, so she yearned over him. His realization of 
his own helplessness became hers, only with an added 
bitterness: for while it was Yule’s duty to shield his wife 
it was Nanetty’s to stand aside and let him prove his 
manhood, alone, unaided. Even though she longed to 
help, the gesture of renunciation was already hers. 

She could help Yule best by withdrawal. Her activities 
must be curbed. There must be no divided allegiance. 
Yule must learn to turn to Jessamy now for what she had 
always given him. For her the rough road, the way of 
the Spartan: for her the role of passivity, perhaps the 
most difficult part to play of all. For who does not find 
it both pleasanter and more profitable to take a personal 
hand in the game than to play the unproductive role 
of the looker-on? 

Nanetty’s face sharpened and her grey eyes clouded to 
suffering. Yule suddenly drew himself up with a sense 
of having violated a privacy which he, of all men, should 
have held inviolable. 

“ We’d better go, Nanetty,” he whispered. “ It isn’t 
fair to trespass like this while the keeper of the gate is 
sleeping, unable either to debar or admit.” 

“ No, it isn’t,” Nanetty whispered back. “ A sleep¬ 
ing person always seems so defenceless. We really have 
no right to look at her when she doesn’t know we’re 
here. . . . Come, Yule.” 

But Yule had dropped on one knee, to kiss a strand of 
the silky, vital hair, whose scent almost intoxicated him. 

Nanetty turned away. She did not want to trespass 
further. All at once she felt very old, very weary, very 
lonely. 

The suddenness with which this mad happening had 
come about seemed somehow to point to its inevitability. 


MOONLIGHT 


103 


Three short days ago neither she nor Yule had known that 
there was such a person in the world as Jessamy Wyatt, 
yet here to-night was she woven into the closest, most 
intimate strand of their mutual life. 

She glanced back again at the still sleeping girl. 

For her, the old four-post bed held no such vision of 
glamorous loveliness as it did for Yule. She saw merely 
a pale, pretty, tired girl, full of possibilities, doubtless, as 
the ovary of a flower is full of seeds — but unlike the 
flower one could not foretell what the blossoms of such 
possibilities might be. From a rose would come forth 
roses, from a thistle, thistles, but both roses and thistles 
might flourish alike in the garden of a young girl’s being. 
Who could tell? If only Jessamy came to love Yule all 
might yet be well, for love alone can work miracles. But 
would she? Could she? That was the crux. Perhaps in 
the revulsion from, the other man’s deception — but 
that wasn’t what Nanetty had wanted for Yule. She 
had desired for him something fuller, something richer 
and more fragrant than the mere re-bound of a girl’s way¬ 
ward fancy. 

She sighed. Yule had risen and stood beside her. His 
face was very white but his eyes shone. 

“ Come away,” he whispered. “ The garden gate is 
locked.” 

“ Isn’t the key yours?” Nanetty whispered back 
fiercely. 

“Not until she gives it to me herself. I’m not going 
to steal it.” 

“ I thought she did give it to you herself this morning.” 

“ Nanetticoat, you’re a great goose,” murmured Yule, 
pushing her gently towards the door. “ Didn’t you 
know that I gave it back to her again to keep until she 
wants to give it to me?” 

He closed the door of the sanctuary gently behind him 
and stood facing his cousin. 

“ It’s you who are the goose, or rather gander,” 


104 


MARSH LIGHTS 


Nanetty retorted. “ Most girls prefer a brigand to Don 
Quixote.” 

“ My girl doesn’t,” said Yule Amber softly. 

“ How do you know?” 

“ Well, assuming that Grote is the brigand and I the 
Quixote, hasn’t she preferred me to him?” 

“ She has married you, certainly,” Nanetty returned. 
“ But I should not flatter myself, if I were you, that any 
real preference was implied by that.” 

Even as the words escaped her she was aghast at her 
own cruelty. But Yule was impervious. To-night he 
wore chain-mail. Nothing could hurt him. All he wanted 
was to be alone to dream over his Vision Splendid. His 
were the first rapt throes of love while yet the spiritual 
necessities come before the physical. In such an exalta¬ 
tion as now filled him flesh did not yet predominate suffi¬ 
ciently to war with spirit. That was to come with later 
urgencies. 

Tonight he was content that his sense of posses¬ 
sion should be physical rather than actual, mental 
rather than physical. He had as yet no realization 
of the fact that in no way did he possess this stranger 
girl who had married him save in the barest legal sense. 
He had forgotten Claire Wyatt and her revelation of the 
afternoon in the ecstasy of the thought of Jessamy asleep. 
The qualms which had beset him earlier had vanished. 

He did not even take in the sense of Nanetty’s gibe. 
He just stood and looked at her, his plain thin face 
irradiated by that inner light which suddenly irritated 
Nanetty and made her once more want to shake him. 

“ Goodnight, old thing” he said kindly. “ You look 
tired out. Sleep well. You must take things quietly 
to-morrow.” 

“ And all the other to-morrows,” said Nanetty with a 

queer little laugh. “Your second wedding-night-” 

she stopped abruptly and went up the stairs to the attics 
which she had chosen for herself: one as a bedroom, 



MOONLIGHT 105 

because it looked out on the river, the other as a studio 
because of its excellent north light. 

Yule looked after her for a moment. “ Poor old 
Nanetticoat!” 

Then he glanced at Jessamy’s door. “ The sword is 
drawn/’ he breathed: finally he opened the door of the 
bedroom allotted to himself, went in and crossed over to 
the window, a French one which opened on to a crazy 
iron balcony. 

He was afraid to venture his weight on it without 
further testing, but he pushed the window wide open and 
leaned against it, drinking in the quiet, the sense of space 
and the eternal peace of the stars. 

Beyond the wall at the other side of the road the river 
flowed, quiet, persistent, unhurried. The sound of it 
came to him through the darkness soothingly. The sight 
of it came occasionally with a sudden glimmer. Peace, 
quiet, space: what he had always wanted. 

Verily, he had come home at last! . . . And if unto 
these three great things yet another was to be added — 
love — truly his world would be full of wonder and 
beauty to over-flowing. 

Forgotten was the mundane, blotted out the little 
nagging worries and pinpricks of everyday existence. 
Forgotten even was the flashing memory of that first un¬ 
fortunate wedding-night which Nanetty’s words had 
evoked. Had he had mind for comparison the austerity, 
the solitariness of this one would have seemed sweet near 
the enforced intimacies of that other. Could brides and 
bridals have been changed — but that would have meant 
that Jessamy- 

No. Yule Amber was rapt into a still, ecstatic content 
with this strangest of strange wedding-nights, which yet 
brought to him a greater strength and courage than any 
ravished raptures could have done. 

Jessamy trusted him: she had married him: she slept 
there in peace and safety under his roof, which should 



106 


MARSH LIGHTS 


henceforth be her roof too. Reticent himself, he would 
respect her reticences: modest, her modesties. To be 
chivalrous, to be clean-minded never made one less of a 
man, thought Yule, quite aware of the fact that men of 
Lucas Grote’s character would have dubbed him milk¬ 
sop. That troubled him but little as he searched for 
pencil and paper wherewith he might recapture the absent 
face that fixed him! . . . 

“ If Brother Ass, as St. Francis called the body, grows 
troublesome I must only take a big stick to him,” was 
his last thought that night before sleep took him, having 
torn up all his efforts at drawing Jessamy. 


PART II 


MARSHLIGHT 






PART II 


MARSHLIGHT 

I 

Caroline Place consisted of three narrow cream- 
coloured houses tucked away at the unfashionable end of 
the Chelsea Embankment. Once the locality had been 
more favoured by that entity which calls itself Society, 
but with the spreading of business upon the river-side, 
the encroaching of trade upon its fringes, Fashion took 
fright and receded fastidiously westward, leaving Caro¬ 
line Place stranded, a forlorn little oasis of gentility. 

Now it was scarcely even genteel: yet somehow that 
old-fashioned Victorian word seemed the only one which 
really suited it, Yule Amber had often thought, before he 
ever dreamed that some day No. 1 would be his. 

From the windows you looked across the road to the 
broad pavement edged with occasional plane-trees, whose 
flaky boughs and thin dark twigs etched themselves 
against a winter sky of cloudy grey or sunset red, or in 
summer massed their peaked green leaves and spiky 
tassel-blossoms against the blue. From spring to autumn 
sparrows innumerable twittered and gossipped in their 
branches. Winter brought the glossy piping starlings 
there to chatter among themselves and whistle to their 
human neighbours with that note of encouragement 
which is one of their sweet elfin secrets. 

Beyond the pavement ran the river, whispering its 
secrets also to the stout old walls of the Embankment. 
But who may guess the mysteries of the rivers, those 
“ travellers swift from secrets to oblivion,” who pass 
from action to action in their courses, unhasting, unrest¬ 
ing, eternally young? 


109 


110 


MARSH LIGHTS 


44 For they are new, they are fresh; there’s no surprise 
Like theirs on earth. 0 strange for evermore! 

This moment’s Tiber with his shining eyes 
Never saw Rome before.” 

Up and down the broad bosom of the moment’s Thames 
went tugs, fussy and self-important, coal-barges, lighters 
laden with timber or bales of paper. The motor-boats of 
the River-Police threaded their quiet way through the 
innocent-seeming traffic of red-sailed barges with masts 
sloping back at strange angles, family barges, with 
painted prows and quaint little deck-houses, or steamers 
thronged with more or less noisy holiday-makers. 

Here, on the river, each of the seven ages of man had 
its prototype in the varying kinds of craft: an endless 
panorama of life for those who had eyes to see. 

Across the river at its far side loomed the dusky bulk 
of wharves, warehouses and chimneys, against whose 
darkness gulls whirled and gleamed like giant snowflakes. 

The inhabitants of Caroline Place varied almost as 
much as the river traffic. 

With the passing of Henry Nimmo age had left the 
precincts of No. 1. 

In No. 2 lived Dr. and Mrs. Waldron, a busy, hard¬ 
working couple, whose young and growing family might 
easily have typified youth. 

No. 3 was occupied by Mrs. Chalfont-Smythe, who, in 
spite of the fact that she had once been obliged to take 
paying guests, had really seen better days, and was very 
particular about her hyphen and the length of her “y.” 

Three years before Yule Amber inherited No. 1 she had 
married (like Yule himself “ en secondes noces ” as she 
would certainly have put it) the last of her paying guests, 
a Mr. Percy Smith, who had prospered sufficiently in some 
mysterious business in the City to enable the plump and 
still comely widow to be free of paying guests for ever 
on marrying him. 

Mrs. Chalfont-Smythe thanked Providence that her 


MARSHLIGHT 


111 


Percy’s name so closely resembled her own, and she in¬ 
sisted upon his adoption of her more aristocratic mode of 
spelling it. Therefore the blameless Percy had the rakish 
satisfaction of knowing that he led a double life (albeit a 
perfectly innocent one): being Mr. Smith by day in the 
City and Mr. Smythe when in residence at No. 3 Caro¬ 
line Place. 

Mrs. Chalfont-Smythe, one of whose paying guests 
had been an impoverished French gentleman, whose 
tenancy of her comfortable rooms had only ceased at his 
death, had come considerably under the Gallic influence 
during his lifetime. This caused her frequently to use 
little French phrases and to speak to her intimates of 
her new husband as “ le P’tit.” To her first spouse (the 
real and authentic Chalfont-Smythe) she invariably al¬ 
luded as “ my husband,” to her second as “ Percy ”— 
a habit which was wont to cause some confusion in the 
minds of her hearers. 

Such were the new neighbours who were ready to 
welcome the Amber family to Caroline Place. 

II 

Nanetty laid the tray on the little round mahogany 
table by Jessamy’s bedside, held out the lavender-silk 
dressing-jacket embroidered in pale pink chrysanthe¬ 
mums for her to slip into, and picked up a dainty affair 
of mauve ninon, pale pink ribbon and gossamer lace 
from the dressing-table. 

“ Why the boudoir cap?” asked Jessamy with a sleepy 
smile. 

“ Because I’m going to send up Yule with your second 
tea. He wants to speak to you.” 

“ Yule? . . . My second tea? . . .” Jessamy 
gasped. 

But Nanetty had gone. In pursuance of her new 
policy she was going to leave these two alone to build 


112 


MARSH LIGHTS 


their own bridge across the gulf that separated them, 
though already, she consoled herself by thinking, she had 
thrown across it the first plank. 

As the door closed behind her Jessamy looked at her 
breakfast tray. Involuntarily her lip curled. 

At home, at Tudor Lodge, whenever she desired to 
have her breakfast in bed, the daintiest of equipment had 
been hers: finest linen and lace, silver and china: tempt¬ 
ing varieties on silver dishes, crystal pots for honey and 
marmalade: her own teapot with its special little cosy. 

Here she had a square tray covered with a tray- 
cloth which did not fit it. A fried egg and rasher re¬ 
posed side by side beneath a round tin dish cover. Two 
slices of bread lay upon her plate with a small slab of 
butter beside them. A cup of tea, already poured out, 
was rapidly cooling. There were a few lumps of sugar 
in a small white bowl, while some marmalade lay on a 
saucer of a different pattern. 

It was all ugly, unappetising to Jessamy’s fastidious¬ 
ness. She turned up her delicate little nose at the 
wholesome fare. The fleshpots of Egypt called to her for 
an instant, as Mrs. Wyatt had known that they would. 
She missed her thin slices of toast in their silver rack, 
her little teapot sprinkled with violets, her silver cream- 
ewer full of yellowy cream, her pats of butter daintily 
rolled on a cut-glass dish. 

“That stuff is probably what they call margarine!” 
she said distastefully, tilting her nose a trifle higher. 

It never occurred to her that there were many necessary 
allowances to be made for this strange new life into 
which she had thrust herself, unasked: that the move to 
Caroline Place, considerably hampered by the exigencies 
of her presence, had taken place only yesterday: that no 
one had as yet had time to probe its resources properly: 
that there was only Nanetty — 

She had slept long and dreamlessly and was feeling 
more rested than she had done since her wild flight from 


MARSHLIGHT 


113 


Tudor Lodge. In that healing slumber something of the 
resilience of her youth had come back to her with its 
consequent reaction from her previous misery. The numb 
ache of her betrayal was still there, but a queer dream¬ 
like sense now enwrapped her, making her feel as if noth¬ 
ing were real, as if she were but dreaming, and that this 
experience as well as her past anguish were but the 
fantasy of a nightmare, from which she must soon 
awaken. 

“ I suppose I had better eat something,” she told 
herself, “ before ‘Yule’ is upon me with his second tea!” 

She slipped out of bed, caught up the boudoir cap and 
hastily pinned up her hair. . . . After all, Yule was 
her husband— (Husband! What a queer word!) He 
had a perfect right to come into her room if he wished, 
only — only — a hot blush swept her. She sponged her 
face with cold water, put on the boudoir cap before the 
mirror and pulled out her hair becomingly beneath it. 

“ Poor man, he may as well have some artistic pleasure 
out of his bargain,” she mused, feeling very old and 
worldly-wise. “ I don’t suppose he’s ever seen a woman 
in decent negligee before.” 

She scrambled back into bed again, took the tray on 
her lap, and began to eat her breakfast, her thoughts 
rambling meanwhile. 

If one started fair ... if one were only sincere 
and simple about things, looked things straight in the 
face, there need be no awkwardness, no embarrassment. 
. . . Facts were facts. ... It was entirely her own 
doing that she had married this total stranger. She 
must never forget that fact, never lose sight of it, no 
matter how far she might be tempted to run away from 
its contemplation. . . . One was far more dressed, 

really, in bed than up. . . . One was completely 

covered from the waist downwards, and becomingly and 
decently clothed from the waist upwards — which was 
more than one could always say of the modern decolletee 


114 


MARSH LIGHTS 


day-frocks. Even one’s hair was covered — quite in the 
Eastern mode! . . . Yule Amber was no Turk. 

. . . With a little shiver Jessamy thanked the mys¬ 
terious Benignity that stood to her for God for that 
. . . Lucas Grote could be, would have been master¬ 
fully possessive. He would not have stood . . . she 
shivered again and once more that burning blush swept 
over her whole body. . . . O Lucas, Lucas! The 

numb ache suddenly grew poignant. Pain stabbed her 
again at the thought of his falseness. 

“ I’ve got safety. I’m safe now,” she told herself. 
“ I’ve got to pay for that. . . . How much, I 

wonder?” 

“ Never get anything you can’t pay for,” had been one 
of her father’s axioms. “ Once your mind is made up, 
once you’ve decided a thing’s worth it, don’t grouse at 
the price.” 

She had been tricked, deceived by those she trusted. 
She had lost faith, love, trust. What had she got in 
exchange? Peace? Safety? Weren’t they worth any¬ 
thing one could pay for them? How could she have gone 
on living with people who had lied to her so grossly? 
How could she have borne to see them daily, to live out 
her life beside them, those people whom she had loved so 
dearly but whom she could never trust again? 

“Oh, never, never!” she cried inwardly with all the 
violent protestation of youth, “Never, never!” 

What if she had rushed into an unconsidered marriage? 
. . . Her heart was dead. She could never love any 
man again. Lucas had done that to her: he had taken 
her youth and spoiled it, taken her heart and broken it, 
taken her life and twisted it all awry. . . . She felt 
a certain grim pleasure in phrasing his devastations. 

Anyhow, she meant to play the game now. She would 
do her part if Yule Amber would do his. Somehow she 
felt that he would. He had a kind face, a trustworthy 
face, though he wasn’t in the least like the men whom she 


MARSHLIGHT 


115 


had been accustomed to meeting. He was old-fashioned, 

rather punctilious — not a bit like- Some women 

whom she knew made a fetish of their houses. Husbands 
seemed to play but a remote and secondary part in their 
lives. She had always wanted a house of her own to 
experiment with. Here was one to her hand — quite an 
odd, quaint one, too, full of possibilities. Wouldn’t that 
be doing something quite big for poor Yule? To make 
his house beautiful, see that his meals were well cooked 
and temptingly served—(again her lip curled at the 
diminished slab of butter, which had not been margarine, 
after all!) —give him harmony in his home instead of 
ugliness and discord? To serve others — wasn’t that the 
best salve for a broken heart? Not that hers could ever 
really heal. No, the wound went too deep for that . . . 
but she must fill her days as best she could. At the 
thought the housewifely instinct, hitherto without an 
outlet, rose strongly within her. She pictured the perfect 
house, run by the perfect staff, gently and easily con¬ 
trolled by herself, its presiding genius. 

Across these consolatory visions broke a gentle knock¬ 
ing at her door. 

“ Come in,” she cried, feeling a sudden nervous flurry, 
quite at variance with her previous calm. 

The door opened and Yule entered bearing a round 
brass tray on which stood a brown teapot and a blue- 
patterned milk-jug. 

“ Good morning, Jessamy,” he said, as if this wonder¬ 
ful proceeding which had set his pulses leaping were the 
most ordinary occurrence in the world. “ I hope you 
slept well. Are you ready for another cup of tea?” 

“ Good morning, Yule,” Jessamy answered, with an 
equally successful effort at self-control. “ Yes, I slept 
very well, and I don’t want any more tea, thank you.” 

“Oh! . . . Then I’d better take back the teapot 
to Nanetty. She may want some more. Let me take your 
tray too, if you’re sure you’ve finished.” 


116 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ Quite, thanks.” 

Suddenly Yule became aware of the difference between 
Jessamy’s personal belongings and the rather untidy 
appurtenances of the tray. 

“ You’ll have to forgive our shortcomings this morn¬ 
ing,” he said anxiously. “ Nanetty hasn’t unpacked our 
own linen yet and doesn’t quite know where my old 
cousin’s belongings are kept. This can’t be anything like 
what you’re used to, but please don’t judge our possi¬ 
bilities by to-day.” 

Suddenly Jessamy felt a childish desire to cry, followed 
by a prick of shame at her own ingratitude. 

“ I don’t judge you at all,” she said rather chokingly. 
“ You’re very, very good to me.” 

Yule almost dropped the tray in his sudden longing to 
take her in his arms and comfort her. It was only with 
a big effort that he controlled himself sufficiently to say, 
in what he fondly hoped was the correct marital tone: 

“ Nonsense, my dear! . . . How can one be good 
to oneself? You and I are one now, remember.” 

“ Don’t think I’ve forgotten,” said Jessamy very low. 
“I — I mean to do my best to make you happy and — 
and comfortable-” 

“For the Lord’s sake don’t!” cried Yule. “I don’t 
want you to make me comfortable. For the past few 
years I’ve been stifled with comfort — cushions, frills, 
full meals! I’ve only been able to breathe again under 
Nanetty’s Bohemian regime. . . . Just be happy 

yourself — or at least as happy as you can. That’s all 
I want.” 

“ Is it?” Jessamy looked up under her lashes at him. 
Yule thought ecstatically that no one else in the world 
could have eyelashes so long and curly. “ Won’t you let 
me try to make you happy too?” 

“ You have made me happy already by your trust in 
me. You make every moment happy just by being under 
my roof. It’s your roof now, remember. Nanetty has 



MARSHLIGHT 117 

abdicated. She says you must be mistress here from this 
day forth.” 

“ Yes, I know.” Jessamy wrinkled up her nose and 
smiled. 

So long as they could avoid the deeper issues of their 
unconsidered experiment, so long might they play at 
being happy. There was a novelty about the present 
situation which held its own piquancy — so long as one 
did not stop to probe or to analyze what lay beneath. 
Safety lay in skimming the shallows and leaving the 
deeps untroubled. So Jessamy told herself, and Yule 
was quite content to follow her lead. 

“ Therefore, after breakfast,” Jessamy pursued, with 
the smile that showed the dimple near the left side of her 
mouth, “ I am to get up and be mistress of my own 
house.” 

“ So Nanetty says,” murmured the enchanted Yule. 
“ But you needn’t if you don’t like. I’ve just made a 
bargain with the tyrant that we are to have a two days’ 
honeymoon — just to-day and to-morrow. ... I don’t 
mean to go away or anything conventional like that.” 
Yule hastily answered a quick glance and a lifted eye¬ 
brow. “ I mean for you just to look round and take your 
bearings, as it were. I don’t know whether you’ll find 
the soundings deep or shallow in comparison with Tudor 
Lodge.” 

“ What do you know about Tudor Lodge?” asked 
Jessamy rather suspiciously. 

Yule’s face clouded. He had forgotten, in this new 
and exquisite delight, the task that lay before him. 

“ Look here,” he said hastily. “ May I come back for 
a minute when I’ve taken down this tray? Confound the 
thing, I believe the marmalade’s going to fall over the 
edge.” 

“ No, it isn’t,” said Jessamy, leaning forward to push 
the saucer back into its place. 

The trivial act seemed to bring a funny little intimacy 


118 


MARSH LIGHTS 


with it, though the girl’s nearness suddenly troubled 
Yule’s senses and set his heart thudding again. 

“ I’ll have to get that big stick if I’m not careful,” he 
thought. Aloud he said: “Well, may I?” 

“I — suppose so,” Jessamy answered slowly. “ But 
couldn’t you wait until I am up and dressed?” 

She felt at a disadvantage there in bed, perfectly 
clothed as she knew herself to be. It was not that she 
did not trust Yule. In that self-analysis from which 
she shrank so nervously she must have discovered how 
extraordinary and inexplicable was her absolute confi¬ 
dence in this man who was still so utterly a stranger to 
her. 

“ I’m sorry,” Yule returned. “ But I’m afraid I can’t. 
You see, there’s something I must tell you. Something 
we must get straight between us before we can go on 
any farther.” 

He was gone, blundering out through the door with his 
heavily-laden tray. Jessamy lay back on her pillows 
with quickened pulses, all at once apprehensive of she 
knew not what. In spite of her determination to keep 
thought at bay she had a swift flash of realization of how 
absolutely she was at Yule Amber’s mercy. Of her own 
accord she had thrust her whole life into his keeping, 
blindly hoping for — what? Oblivion of the past, some 
sudden change of emotion and temperament with her 
environment, some spell, wherewith to banish thought 
and feeling? 

How childish! How futile! . . . For however fast 
one runs one cannot escape from oneself. 

She had voluntarily given this man rights over her 
which only his own chivalry would prevent him from 
exercising. How frail a barrier to guard that personal 
freedom which she had relinquished so unthinkingly! 
Had men any chivalry? Would Lucas-? She cov¬ 

ered her face with her hands again as she thought of the 
passion of his kisses. A mingled gust of longing and 


MARSHLIGHT 


119 


loathing shook her. . . . What a strange thing the 

flesh was! . . . How little to be trusted! . . . 

So her thoughts spun wildly, incoherently. 

Again that knocking at the door broke across them. 
It was symbolical, she thought, as she gave a rather 
trembling, “ Come in.” 


Ill 

Once more the entrance of Yule brought a certain 
calm matter-of-factness with it: a tacit assumption of 
the ordinariness of this most extraordinary proceeding. 
No man but her father, or the doctor who attended her 
in her rare illnesses had ever entered Jessamy’s bed¬ 
room before. She had pictured sometimes, as a girl will, 
half shyly, half thrillingly, the entry of the one to whom 
she would some day give that right. . . . There had 
been only one such ever in her thoughts, Lucas Grote. 

In no circumstances could she possibly have visioned 
this thin-faced man with his eager eyes and reddish hair, 
who spoke to her in a language which she had never 
heard from man before. 

Yet there he stood, just inside the door, those bright 
beseeching eyes asking for permission to approach, his 
whole manner begging humbly for what had not yet 
been put into words — some hidden obscure need for 
her forgiveness. 

“ Won’t you sit down,’* Jessamy said nervously, in¬ 
dicating a chair. 

Yule took the chair and drew it a little nearer to 
the great old-fashioned bed, whose faded apple-green 
hangings threw Jessamy’s delicate beauty into full relief. 
The light fell on his face, revealing a reflection of her 
own nervousness, which oddly enough steadied the girl’s 
pulses and helped to restore her poise. 

“What is it — Yule?” she asked gently. 

Looking full at her and clasping his hands tightly be- 


120 


MARSH LIGHTS 


tween his knees Yule plunged without preamble into the 
head and front of his offending. 

“ I went to Tudor Lodge last night. I saw Mrs. 
Wyatt. I-” 

“ You what?” cried Jessamy, paling at the shock of 
his words. “You saw Claire? You told her-” 

“ I told her nothing save that you were safe and 
well.” 

“ Why did you go near her? Oh, why? Didn’t 
I-?” 

“ Listen, dear,” said Yule gently. “ I had to go. It 
was only fair to her to let her know that you hadn’t been 
taken advantage of by a scoundrel.” 

“ What was it to her? She-” 

“ It was a good deal to her. She loves you, Jessamy. 
She has suffered greatly on your account.” 

“ And what have I suffered on hers?” cried Jessamy 
wildly. “ Is it nothing to have all you cared for, all you 
trusted, all you held sacred torn down and trampled in 
the dust?” 

“ It is a terrible thing,” said Yule gravely. “ A very 
terrible thing, my dear. But perhaps you may have 
misjudged her. Perhaps-” 

“ How could I possibly have misjudged her? Hadn’t 
I the evidence of my own ears?” 

“ What did you hear exactly?” 

“ I heard — oh, I can’t tell you. It was horrible. 
More than I told Nanetty. Enough, more than enough 
to make me know that they had once been — lovers.” 

“ But what was the crime in that?” Yule pursued 
gently. “ They were engaged long ago — Mrs. Wyatt 
told me so herself last evening — but they were too poor 
to marry. She did not tell you anything about that 
early engagement because — because-” 

“ Why?” asked Jessamy in a hard tone, two bright 
spots suddenly springing to burn in her cheeks. 

“ Because she didn’t want to do anything which might 








MARSHLIGHT 


121 


spoil your— idyll —she said.” It hurt Yule in some 
queer way to clothe Jessamy’s previous love-affair in 
words. 

Jessamy’s look held scorn and a touch of contempt. 

“ So she’s got you! ... I knew she would. 
That’s why I didn’t want you to see her, ever.” 

“ She hasn’t got me, you foolish child. Can’t you be 
reasonable? I know that your step-mother deceived you, 
hurt you, but — but if you could only have seen her as I 
saw her, pale, unhappy, with tears in her eyes, she’d-” 

“ She’d get me too! . . . No, thanks,” said Jes- 
samy hardly. 

“ Dear, don’t let’s begin our life together with rancour 
and bitterness. Try to forgive Mrs. Wyatt. After all, 
it isn’t a criminal act to have been once engaged to the 
man you were going to marry.” 

Jessamy looked at Yule and away again. 

“I — didn’t mean the word ‘lovers’ in the innocent 
sense in which you meant it,” she said very low. 

“ Oh, but, Jessamy-” 

“Oh, but, Yule!” she mocked him deliberately. 
“ She’s got you properly. . . . Didn’t I tell you that 
she’d twist you round her little finger?” 

“ You did — but she didn’t. I kept your secret, Jes¬ 
samy. I told her that she must not even try to see you 
or find out where you lived, that she must let you 
absolutely alone.” 

“ Well, that was decent of you, anyhow,” Jessamy 
returned grudgingly. 

“ You’re as safe as ever,” Yule assured her. “ The 
next step must come from you, she said.” 

“ Thanks. ... I’d chop off my feet first.” 

“Oh, Jessamy — your pretty feet!” 

“ How do you know they’re pretty?” 

“ I’m not afflicted with blindness,” answered Yule, 
with a smiling glance at the lavender mules. 

“Oh, but that’s just what you are!” she cried in a 




122 


MARSH LIGHTS 


tone of exasperation. “ Blind as a bat! . . . Now 

that the interview is over will you go away, please, and 
let me get up?” 

“ But it isn’t quite over yet.” 

“Heavens! Is there more to come?” cried Jessamy. 
Then her eyes opened wider and grew wild with appre¬ 
hension. “You didn’t — you didn’t see — Lucas?” 

“ No, dear, no. . . . It has nothing to with that. 
I have a personal confession to make. Last night, when 
Nanetty came in to see that you were all right I stole in 
after her and looked at you when you were asleep.” He 
paused for an instant. “ I felt I ought to tell you.” 

Jessamy looked up expectantly. “ Yes?” 

“ That’s all. ... Or practically all,” he answered, 
reddening. 

This was not the moment to tell her of the ecstasy 
which had enfolded him, of the rapture which had swept 
him from time and place at the touch of her scented 
hair, of the great tenderness he felt for her as he knelt 
beside her bed, of the love and service he had vowed 
towards her, then and always. 

“ Are you still angry with me?” he asked. 

Something in his tone touched Jessamy to a softer 
mood. 

“ Why should I be angry with you? We must both be 
free to go our own ways, I suppose, and to do what we 
think best. If you thought it best to go to see Claire 
and believe in her lies-” 

“ Jessamy!” 

Yule was on his knees beside her, tightly holding the 
nervously fluttering hands in his own. Jessamy looked 
at him in surprise. 

“ Jessamy, you are so sweet, so beautiful, that I can’t 
bear to have you thinking these hideous things. . . . 
Don’t, dear. It isn’t worthy of you.” 

“ Worthy of me?” she echoed. Here he was talking 
that high-flown unknown language again! . . . But 



MARSHLIGHT 


123 


the worst of it was that he was perfectly honest, perfectly 
sincere. One couldn’t pull one’s hand away and laugh at 
him. He would be horribly hurt. Besides 1 . . . wasn’t 
it rather cheap to laugh at ideals, such as his, even 
though one knew that one couldn’t possibly attain to 
them? One was too apt to call everything sentimental 
that was a little off the beaten track of the realities. . . . 
Realities? What were they, if one came to think of it? 
Physical enjoyment, the Arts, Love. . . . Were those 
the only realities, after all? . . . Had this queer 

man got hold of something which she, in her cultured, 
moneyed, leisured life, had missed? . . . “ Yule, I don’t 
understand you.” 

“ How could you?” he said humbly. “ I am only a 
clod beside your finer clay. But that’s why I hate to see 
you muffing any of your possibilities, why it jars so 
frightfully to think that you, in your purity, should 
think evil of another woman.” 

There was a long pause in which Jessamy’s hand 
fluttered like a little bird under Yule’s. 

“ I wonder if you’re right,” said the girl at last. 
“ About Claire, I mean? . . . Could I possibly have 
misunderstood? . . . Oh, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. 

. . . No, Yule, no. I can’t believe that I was mis¬ 

taken.” 

Her easy use of his name touched Yule with a sense 
of sweetest intimacy. How was he to know how freely 
Christian names were bandied about in the set to which 
Jessamy had so recently belonged and from which she 
now desired such an absolute severance? Greatly daring, 
he lifted one of her restless hands and laid it gently 
against his cheek. It was enough for him that Jessamy 
suffered it. Response he did not hope for as yet, but it 
was something that it lay quietly against his clean¬ 
shaven skin. 

“ You’ll believe it some day,” he answered gently. 

The back of her hand was like satin, the mere touch 


124 


MARSH LIGHTS 


of it on his cheek a caress. He closed his eyes for an 
instant to savour the ecstasy of the contact. 

Jessamy looked at his rapt face with a mingling of 
feelings, apprehension, annoyance, shame. 

“ When will that be?” she asked with a little frown. 

“ When you’ve found out for yourself the things that 
really matter.” 

“ What are they?” 

Yule opened his eyes, her hand still against his cheek, 
only half willingly, though he did not realize that or he 
would have let it go at once. 

“ Kindness, courage, honesty, I think. Don’t you 
agree?” 

“ I’m afraid I haven’t thought about it,” Jessamy 
admitted. 

“You’ll never begin younger.” Yule smiled at her, 
slid her hand round to his lips and kissed it lightly. 
“ But we’ve each got to work out these things for our¬ 
selves, haven’t we? . . . And anyhow, we’re starting 
straight now, you and I.” 

“ Yes,” answered Jessamy rather low. 

She made a slight movement of the hand he held, and 
Yule released it instantly. 

“ Look here,” he blurted out, reddening. “I — my 
touch isn’t repugnant to you, is it?” 

“ Oh, no, no,” cried Jessamy in swift confusion. “I — 
didn’t mean. . . . My arm was getting rather cramped. 
. . . That was all.” On an impulse she held her 

other hand out to him. 

He took it in his, pressed a kiss upon its palm and laid 
it down on the bed again. 

“ That’s all right, dear,” he half whispered. “ You 
needn’t be afraid of my trespassing, ever.” 

“ Oh, but I’m not,” Jessamy thrust in. “ And as 
we’re on the subject, and we may not want to be so 
serious again, I must just say this. That I don’t see why 
we shouldn’t make quite a decent thing out of this un- 


MARSHLIGHT 


125 


conventional marriage of ours. People are such slaves 
to convention that they think that any move from the 
beaten track must be wrong and fore-doomed to failure. * 
You and I are — are sensible people. We’ve had our — 
our experiences. We know something of life and — and 
don’t expect too much-” 

“ But that’s all wrong,” interrupted Yule. “ Those 
who expect nothing will get nothing. That’s not the 
right attitude at all. ‘ Great Hopes gold-armoured ’ must 
be yours and mine. If we go forward together with 
kindness and courage and honesty, we’re bound to meet 
them at last.” 

Jessamy shook her head. 

“ I have no hopes, gold-armoured or otherwise,” she 
answered, her momentary eagerness clouded. 

Yule regarded her with a funny little smile in his eyes. 

“ Don’t tell me that you live in that grey world where 
there’s only ‘ an infinite twilight of content with nothing 
more to lose ’?” 

“ Oh, but I do. That’s just it. How do you know? 
Do you live there, too?” All the deliberate pessimism 
of her youth responded eagerly to the suggestion. 

“ Not a bit of it,” cried Yule. “ Nor you either. The 
dustman may, for all I care, for I pitched that mawkish 
philosophy into the dustbin for him. You’ve heaps more 
to lose and so have I.” 

“ But what?” asked Jessamy, wide-eyed. 

“ Youth, health, sight, friends, lots of things.” 

“ I haven’t any friends . . . now.” 

“ Base ingrate! What about Nanetty and me? Aren’t 
we your friends?” 

“ The best a girl ever had, I think,” murmured Jes¬ 
samy, with a little deprecating look. “ You mustn’t 
think me ungrateful, for I’m not.” 

“ Gratitude’s a niggard word which must never be 
used between you and me,” said Yule. “ What’s mine 
is yours. Remember that. . . . And as we’re never 



126 


MARSH LIGHTS 


going to be serious again”—he looked at her half 
whimsically, half anxiously—“here’s my wedding wish 
for you, written by a wiser than I for a dear friend’s 
birthday.” He paused. 

“ Tell me,” said Jessamy pricked with a desire to be 
friendly. More of his unknown language, she supposed 
. . . more of the ideals to which she could never 

attain. Queer, old-world person, with his dreams and 
whimsies, his clean outlook on life and his odd ideas 
about everything. . . . What was he going to say 

now, she wondered. 

“ It’s a secret,” he answered. “ Not even Nanetty 
knows — yet. . . . But I’m going to make a little book 
of it, and now that you’ve come, it shall be yours — all 
about you. You shall be on every page of it if only — if 
only I can ever succeed in drawing you.” 

“ But you haven’t even tried yet.” 

“ I tried half last night,” Yule answered simply. 
“ And in the end I tore up every sketch I’d made.” 

“ Try next time when I’m there,” Jessamy suggested. 
“ Perhaps you’ll have better luck. But weren’t you 
going to tell me the wish?” 

Yule hesitated, held by that reticence that makes it so 
hard for the Englishman to voice his deeper feelings. 
Then he began in a low tone, which grew fuller and more 
vibrant in feeling as he forgot self in what he was wishing 
for the one beloved: those happy thoughts wrapped in 
beautiful words by Ruskin, that lover of jewelled prose: 

“ Every year some new love of lovely things, and some 
new forgetfulness of the teasing things and some higher 
pride in the praising things, and some sweeter peace from 
the hurrying things and some closer fence from the 
worrying things. And longer stay of time when you are 
happy and lighter flight of days that are unkind.” 

Silence fell when he stopped. Some emotion stronger 
than himself gripped him. He could not have spoken if 
he would; he would not if he could: for what love urged 


MARSHLIGHT 


127 


him to say might not yet be put into words. He could 
only live it, and hope for an ultimate understanding one 
day. 

“ That's beautiful,” murmured Jessamy, touched to 
speech at last by the awkwardness of the silence. Emo¬ 
tion to which she could not respond made her feel gauche 
and uncomfortable. Yet Amber’s sincerity touched her 
and she searched her numbed mind for some answer that 
would please him. Finally she ventured: “ Part of your 
wish has come true already, I think.” 

“ What’s that?” Yule came back to earth faintly 
expectant. 

“ The ‘ closer fence from worrying things,’ ” replied 
the girl shyly. “ You’re that, you know.” 

“Am I?” said Yule, flushing with pleasure. “I 
want to be, God knows.” 

“ As for the new love of lovely things-” she stopped 

abruptly. . . . Wasn’t it she who had purposed to 

teach that herself to Yule? . . . She felt an unwonted 
humility. “ I believe we do speak the same language 
after all.” Her thought uttered itself almost without her 
own volition: against wish or desire. For how could 
they speak the same language, this strange man and 
herself? 

“ Of course we do,” said Yule joyously. 

Then he swung round and left the room without 
another word. He felt that he could not trust himself 
further. 

IV 

In the kitchen, Mrs. Daylight, burning with curiosity 
about this hasty, unheralded marriage, was endeavouring 
to discuss the situation with Nanetty. 

She was a brisk capable little woman of nondescript 
colouring. Her proudest possession was a very new set 
of gleaming false teeth, which Yule declared must own 
at least half-a-dozen more than the allotted number: heir 



128 


MARSH LIGHTS 


most salient characteristic a permanent droop in her left 
eyelid which imparted to an otherwise commonplace face 
an expression of extreme knowingness. 

“ I can’t compliment pore Mr. Nimmo’s housekeeper 
on the way she left things, miss,” Mrs. Daylight was 
saying. “ Many’s the day since them shelves was 
scrubbed down. They’re fit now for anything. I’ll put 
up the china on ’em if you’ll tell me where wot’s to go.” 

“ Put the things wherever it’s most convenient for you, 
Mrs. Daylight. The old china — well, Mrs. Amber must 
decide herself where she wants that to go.” 

Mrs. Daylight cocked her head on one side, pouncing 
upon the heaven-sent opportunity. 

“ A suddint sort of marriage that, Miss Cotes, wasn’t 
it?” 

Nanetty managed a non-committal smile. 

“ Don’t they say ‘ happy’s the wooing that’s not long 
a-doing,’ Mrs. Daylight?” 

“ Yes, miss, but they also say ‘ Marry in haste and 
repent at leisure.’ It remains to be seen which of them 
two is right. . . . Had Mr. h’Amber known the young 
lady long?” 

“Long enough for them to get married yesterday,” 
returned Nanetty, putting a row of tumblers up on the 
dresser, and turning towards the stacked plates. 

Mrs. Daylight, who had the rare faculty of being able 
to work while she talked, pursued her theme further: 
“ Not that it matters much in the h’end whether you 
knows a person long or short. Marriage is a lucky-bag, 
so it is. Once you puts your ’and in you ’as to keep 
wot you draws out. Many a one, metabolically speaking, 
as pore Mr. h’Amber is so fond of saying, would wish in 
their ’earts as they’d bin able to take a peep h’inside the 
bag first. They’d ’a’ dropped wot they ’eld like ’ot 
potatoes, so they would, I’m thinking. But there, miss, 
it h’all comes to the same thing in the h’end. You gets 
used to wot you ’as, don’t you?” 


MARSHLIGHT 


129 


“ I expect so,” answered Nanetty absently. 

She had heard the opening of Jessamy’s door upstairs 
and the careful sound of Yule’s descending footsteps. 
The next moment he had come into the kitchen with the 
breakfast-tray, which he put down on the table. 

The two women turned round from their work, regard¬ 
ing him very differently. Mrs. Daylight’s flashing smile 
and simulated wink denoted a sly sympathy with the 
newly-made bridegroom, for whom she had a genuine 
liking in spite, or perhaps because of, his “ queerness.” 

Nanetty’s look was more difficult to read. Indeed, it 
would have been impossible for herself even to disentangle 
the various emotions that warred within her, so complex, 
so contradictory were they. It was to her Yule turned 
after his morning greeting to the promoted charwoman. 

“ What can I do for you next, Nanetty?” he asked. 
“ I shall be ready to act handy-man in a few minutes. 
I’ve just got to go back to Jessamy for a moment first.” 

It pricked Nanetty like a nettle-sting to hear his voice 
soften at each utterance of the girl’s name: not with the 
ordinary jealousy that stings and burns, but with a more 
complicated feeling which deprecated and deplored the 
unmeaning suddenness of Yule’s infatuation. The in¬ 
stantaneousness of the whole thing precluded, to her 
mind, any genuine or abiding love. To her, love was a 
blossom of slow growth which unfolded gradually from 
bud to flower with due inevitability, neither hasting nor 
resting until the beautiful climax was reached. This 
almost magical efflorescence had something impermanent 
about it. That which had blossomed as swiftly as a 
cactus-bloom must surely wither with the same discon¬ 
certing suddenness. She could not be happy in this 
baseless, evanescent happiness of Yule’s, so pitifully 
apparent in his eyes and voice. 

“ Arrange your books,” she said. “ Mrs. Daylight 
and I are busy here. The sitting-rooms must wait till 
Jessamy sees them.” 


130 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ Reelly, Mr. h’Amber,” suggested Mrs. Daylight, 
“ the best thing you could do would be to take yourself 
and your young lady h’out of the ’ouse for the day, and 
let me and Miss Cotes get straight ’ere. H’indeed, why 
you’re not the both of you h’off on a proper ’oneymoon, 
h’l can’t imagine!” 

“ Don’t be so conventional, my ‘ pure Daylight of 
honest speech,’ ” returned Amber with a twinkle. “ Don’t 
you know that honeymoons have gone completely out of 
fashion? Mrs. Amber and I are going to feed on honey- 
dew and drink the milk of Paradise here in Caroline 
Place, and you shall be our Ganymede if you will.” 

“ Ganymede indeed!” scoffed Mrs. Daylight, regarding 
Yule fondly. “ And wot sort of an ’eathen ’ussy might 
she ’ave been, Mr. h’Amber? I take it you’re speaking 
metabolically as usual, sir?” 

“ Metabolically, diabolically or hyperbolically, it’s all 
the same. Ganymede was cup-bearer to the gods, Mrs. 
Daylight. A high office.” 

“ Which means, I suppose, as you’d like a cup o’ coffee 
after your dinner,” said Mrs. Daylight, who knew 
Amber’s preferences almost as well as Nanetty did by 
this time. 

“ Please,” he smiled. Then he turned to his cousin. 
“ Don’t kill yourself, old thing. I’ll be back in a minute.” 

He was gone. The two women listened to his footsteps 
hastening eagerly up the kitchen stairs. Mrs. Daylight 
even went to the door and looked after his retreating form 
with what Nanetty could only call a leer of sympathy, 
deepened to acuteness by the knowing droop of her left 
eyelid. 

The door upstairs opened and shut. Nanetty pushed 
dinner-plates into their places on the dresser with a little 
clatter. Mrs. Daylight began to wash up Jessamy’s 
belated breakfast things with an indulgent smile. 

“ Well, well, Mr. h’Amber’s a very h’unusual gentle¬ 
man,” she mused. “ Bless ’is ’eart and give ’im an 


MARSHLIGHT 


131 


’appy h’issue h’out h’of h’all ’is h’afflictions, h’as the 
Bible says. . . . Young Mrs. h’Amber seems to be 

a reel lady, Miss Cotes, not like you and me who works 
with our ’ands. Staying in bed for ’er breakfast an’ 
that sort of thing.” 

“ Mrs. Amber isn’t very strong and has had a good 
deal of trouble lately,” Nanetty explained. 

“ That’s why Mr. h’Amber sleeps in the little room, 
h’isn’t it?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Ah, it won’t be for long, please Gawd,” rejoined Mrs. 
Daylight heartily. She was plunging into indelicate 
aspirations regarding Mrs. Amber’s future state of health 
when Nanetty stopped her with an abrupt: “ I think I’d 
better go out and do some marketing now. We haven’t 
got enough in the house to carry us over the week-end. 
I’m only responsible till Monday, Mrs. Daylight. From 
then on you’ll take your orders from Mrs. Amber. She’s 
not very experienced, I fancy, so we’ll both have to help 
her as much as we can.” 

“ That’ll mean ’er taking ’er orders from me, meta- 
bolically speaking,” said Mrs. Daylight cheerfully. 
“ Well, that’s h’all for the best. You know I’m honest, 
Miss Cotes. I ’aven’t got no nest to feather nor no young 
birds to feed, like some I could mention. We’ll soon 
shake down, never you fear.” 

“ Shake down?” thought Nanetty as she toiled up the 
stairs to her attic. “ It will take some time to shake down 
after such an upheaval.” 


V 

When Jessamy had unpacked her trunks and put 
away the personal belongings which Mrs. Wyatt had sent 
her through Mr. Heppel, she took a more critical stock 
of her surroundings than she had done hitherto. 

The room she had slept in was a large and pleasant one, 


132 


MARSH LIGHTS 


with two windows opening on to a narrow iron balcony 
and looking across the road to the river. She walked 
over to the nearest one. 

The view held her for a moment. There was but an 
intermittent traffic past Caroline Place. Now a taxi-cab 
purred by, now a motor-van or bread-cart rumbled past. 
Sparrows chattered in the plane-trees on the opposite 
pavement. A brisk wind whipped the river to a steely 
brightness, which was now barred by a tug towing a 
string of black hulking lighters upstream. 

From the house next door a small procession suddenly 
poured forth; a baby and a two-year-old in a capacious 
perambulator pushed by a worried-looking nurse-maid, 
who cast an anxious eye behind her at the antics of two 
older children who were having a jumping race down the 
short flight of steps which led up to each hall-door in 
Caroline Place. 

Jessamy watched them until the procession had con¬ 
centrated and safely convoyed itself across the road. She 
was going to turn away when another movement down 
below caught her eye. A thin young woman with rather 
untidy fair hair rushed out of the house next door, a 
feeding-bottle in her hand. 

“ Gladys!” she called. “You’ve forgotten baby’s 
bottle.” 

She ran across the road and tucked the bottle under 
the perambulator rug, kissed the sleeping baby and the 
two-year-old and was leaped upon by the other children, 
who demanded kisses also before she turned to go. 

Breathless and laughing she patted and pushed them 
on their way, gave some last instructions to the nurse¬ 
maid and crossed the road again, smoothing back the 
stray locks of her hair as she went. She had a pleasant, 
rather careworn face, Jessamy thought, as she watched 
the little scene with quite an impersonal sense of detach¬ 
ment. 

She seemed to be living two lives just then: the inner, 


MARSHLIGHT 


133 


hidden life, where all that she had ever known had failed 
her, leaving an incessant dull ache behind, and the euter 
new one through which she walked as in a dream, ap¬ 
parently normal, doing all the expected things in quite 
ordinary fashion, in spite of the queer unreality of 
everything. 

When the next-door lady had reached the pavement a 
stout opulent-looking woman joined and greeted her. 
Fragments of their conversation floated up to Jessamy 
through the open window. 

“. . . moved in yesterday ... a bride, did 

you hear?” 

“. . . Nice for le P’tit to have another gentleman 
for bridge. . . . You and I. . . . My poor husband 
preferred games of chance, roulette, les p’tits che- 
vaux . . .” 

“. . . wish there were children . . . play with.” 

A comfortable chuckle and a “ Come, my dear, give 

them time. . . . Tout vient, you know-” awoke 

Jessamy to the awkward realization that the new inhabit¬ 
ants of No. 1 formed the subject of discussion. 

Blushing hotly she withdrew, hoping that these talka¬ 
tive new neighbours of hers had not seen her at the 
window. 

Still hot and uncomfortable she surveyed the room with 
its used washstand and tumbled bedclothes. The walls 
were covered with an old-fashioned paper — roses clam¬ 
bering over a faded green trellis. It suited the old ma¬ 
hogany furniture: the great wardrobe with its centre 
mirror, the marble-topped, claw-legged washstand, the 
bow-fronted chest of drawers, the big four-post bed, the 
chairs with their high carved backs. 

“ New curtains and chair covers. Nothing else,” 
Jessamy decided quickly. “ It would spoil this room to 
modernize it. I believe I’ll be able to get a chintz that 
will go with the bed curtains. . . . Delicious things!” 
she glanced at the bed. “ The whole room is like an 



134 


MARSH LIGHTS 


illustration to Jane Austen. But I’m not going to live in 
a Jane Austen novel. I’m of to-day, so the rest of the 
house must be of to-day also. After all, we’re living in 
to-day, so why the pretence of a pseudo-period? A 
harmonious mixture, that’s what I want. 

These good people have got to be livened up. I’m quite 
willing to adapt myself partly to their ways if they’ll be 
equally willing to adapt themselves partly to mine. They 
thought the other house hideous. So it was. This is 
much better, quite livable-in. The other was impos¬ 
sible.” Jessamy gave a little shudder of distaste. “ Well, 
they thought so, too. That’s a sign of grace. I won¬ 
der -” 

A firm rapping at the door made her turn her head 
sharply. 

“ What on earth does he want now?” she thought with 
exasperation as she said “ Come in.” 

It was not her husband who entered. It was a brisk 
little woman in a check overall who regarded her with 
interest from beneath her drooping lid as she gave her a 
friendly “ Good morning, mum.” 

“ Oh — good morning,” answered Jessamy, rather 
taken aback. “ Who are you and what do you want?” 

“ I’m Mrs. Daylight, mum. I used to char at Rad¬ 
nor Crescent, but I’m going to live in here and do 
for you all.” She flashed two rows of gleaming teeth at 
Jessamy, of whose looks, at any rate, she quite approved. 

Certainly the girl lived up to her ideal of “a reel 
lady ” in her simple little mole-colour frock with its 
clever touches of rust and amber and brown embroidery. 
Those hands, too, white and pink-tipped, looked suffi¬ 
ciently pretty and useless to prove her previous asser¬ 
tion. 

“ I shall call you Daylight, then,” began Jessamy. 
“ I’m used to-” she stopped abruptly. 

“You may call me h’anything you like so long as it 
isn’t Nightlight,” beamed Mrs. Daylight. “ For them’s 




MARSHLIGHT 135 

things I can’t abide. Mr. h’Amber calls me h’all sorts 
of queer names.” 

Mrs. Daylight had been housemaid in what she called 
“ a good ’ouse ” in her early youth, and she knew that 
it was the smart thing to call the upper servants by their 
surnames: so that Jessamy’s curt decision did not in 
any way offend her dignity. 

“1 made sure you’d be ready for me to do h’out your 
room, mum. I want to get it done before I tackles the 

dinner. No wish to ’urry you, but-” she paused 

significantly. 

“ I’m quite ready,” Jessamy returned, picking up a 
handkerchief and tucking it into her sleeve. “ Where is 
— where are-?” 

“ Miss Cotes ’as gone out and Mr. h’Amber is settling 
’is books in the dining-room.” 

“ Thank you.” 

Mrs. Daylight cast an appraising eye at the pretty 
litter on her new mistress’s dressing-table. 

“ She’ve been used to a maid of ’er own, it’s h’easily 
seen. We’ll ’ave to get a girl if she h’expects lady’s 
maiding ’ere. Never done a ’and’s turn for ’erself in ’er 
life, I’ll be bound. A reel lady, as ever is!” 

Meanwhile Jessamy left the shelter of her room and 
took her first conscious steps in her new domain. Last 
evening she had been aware of nothing but her own 
intense fatigue and the overwhelming reaction after the 
strain she had undergone. Today her vitality reasserted 
itself. 

The door of the room next hers was open. It had 
evidently been hastily arranged as a bedroom, for she 
caught a glimpse of a camp bedstead and makeshift fur¬ 
niture. It was small and narrow, with one window 
which looked out on the river, as hers did. The room 
behind her own was larger and was furnished as a 
dressing-room. It looked out on a narrow strip of gar¬ 
den at the back. Behind it again were a bathroom and 



136 


MARSH LIGHTS 


linen cupboard. Downstairs were the dining-room and 
drawing-room, she imagined, approximating to the rooms 
upstairs. Another flight of stairs led up to what she 
assumed were the attics, where Nanetty must sleep. The 
best and largest room had been allotted to her. . . . 

They were decent to her, anyhow, she thought. 

She went downstairs and pushed open the dining-room 
door. Yule was on his knees beside a bookcase in one 
corner, unpacking a box of books which the packers had 
not had time to open yesterday. 

He sprang to his feet when he saw her. He was 
hot and his hair untidy. A streak of dust barred his 
chin. He pulled forward an old leather-covered chair 
for Jessamy. 

“ Come and take stock of your kingdom,” he said 
eagerly. 

Her great eyes held a spark of interest as she nodded 
and looked round her. 

“ I’m afraid all this is too ugly and shabby for you,” 
he deprecated. “You must have things to suit you, of 
course. One’s surroundings make such an enormous 
difference, don’t they?” 

Jessamy nodded again. “I’ve just been making the 
acquaintance of your factotum, Daylight. How many 
teeth has she? I counted at least fifty-six!” 

Yule burst into delighted laughter. “ I always tell 
Nanetty that Mrs. Daylight has got at least a set and a 
half.” 

Jessamy laughed too. The similarity of their silly 
jests set an answering chord vibrating somewhere in 
each. There are few bonds more powerful than a simi¬ 
larity of taste in jokes, feeble or otherwise. 

“ Not that I mind false teeth,” Jessamy said, showing 
an excellent natural set of her own. “I think they give 
a person rather a kind look, but-” 

“ Exactly,” said Yule, laughing again. “ One may 
have too much of a good thing, just as people are known 



MARSHLIGHT 


137 


to have been killed with kindness. . .. . But what 

about this room? What do you think of it? Can it be 
made at all possible?” 

Jessamy looked at the grey-green walls and the ma¬ 
genta repp curtains and chair-covers. The pictures 
were large and overpowering: Victorian engravings at 
their ugliest manifestation. The furniture was plain and 
solid: useful but inoffensive. 

“ The furniture’s all right, in its way,” she pro¬ 
nounced. “ But the best thing you can do with the pic¬ 
tures and curtains is to make a bonfire of them. They 
are appalling.” 

“ Yes, aren’t they?” said Yule ruefully. 

“ Why not sell them and use the proceeds for getting 
new ones?” asked Nanetty’s voice behind them. 

She stood in the doorway, laden with parcels. She 
looked worn and tired. Her old grey felt hat hid all her 
radiant hair and accentuated the sharp plainness of her 
face. Yule turned swiftly and went to take her burden 
from her. 

“ Why did you sneak off without telling me, old 
thing?” he asked. “ I could at least have carried these 
heavy parcels for you and I wasn’t doing much good 
here.” 

“ What have you been buying?” asked Jessamy, a 
little annoyed at the interruption. 

She rather fancied herself as a house-decorator, and 
she had just embarked on a scheme which was to effect 
the maximum of transformation with the minimum of 
cost: at least, the question of economy had not really 
obtruded itself into her calculations until Nanetty’s prac¬ 
tical suggestion had reminded her of its necessity. 

“ Honeydew and milk of Paradise for your dinner,” 
Nanetty answered, a rather sharp tang in her tone. 
“ That’s what you ordered, Yule, wasn’t it?” 

“ Certainly,” he answered, reddening a little. Then 
he looked across at Jessamy and smiled as if to make 


138 


MARSH LIGHTS 


amends for his cousin’s brusquerie. “It would be that 
in any case, though.” 

Jessamy smiled perfunctorily in return. She did not 
understand the little passage at arms, though she was 
sufficiently sensitive to realize the pull of some under¬ 
current beneath the light flow of words. 

“Can we go shopping this afternoon?” she asked. 
“Those curtains and chair-covers make me feel physi¬ 
cally ill. The pictures, of course, can come down at 
once.” 

She jumped up on a chair and laid hold of the nearest 
light maple frame. 

“Let me do that,” cried Yule, lifting her down and 
taking her place. “ What shall we put on the walls 
instead? Etchings? Japanese prints?” 

Jessamy gasped a little at his unexpected action. 

“ Which have you got?” she asked practically. 

“ Neither, I’m afraid.” 

“Etchings would be best, but the good ones are 
frightfully dear, aren’t they?” 

“ I’m afraid so. I’ve never been able to afford them.” 

“ You won’t be able to afford them now, either,” 
Nanetty reminded him. “You must remember that five 
hundred a year isn’t inexhaustible, Yule, and that it’s far 
more important to buy a decent set of aluminum ware 
for the kitchen than etchings for the dining-room.” 

“Philistine!” cried Yule. “Mustn’t our souls be fed 
as well as our bodies? Man does not live by bread 
alone!” 

“ No, but he can’t live without it-” 

“ And this room could be quite easily adapted to a 
scheme which I’ve always wanted to carry out,” said 
Jessamy musingly. “ A mignonette room, cream, grey- 
green, and pale red. The walls are just right as they 
are and we could get the other colours in the curtains and 
pictures-” 

“ Pictures?” cried Nanetty suddenly. “Wait a min- 




MARSHLIGHT 


139 


ute. I think I have just what you want! It shall be 
my wedding-present to you if you like it.” 

She dropped the last of her parcels on the dining-room 
table and hurried out of the room, forgetting her fatigue 
in a little pang of remorse for her churlishness. . . . 

Why was she so cross? Why wasn’t she helping Yule 
as she had vowed to do, instead of snapping at him as 
she had done? Why was human nature so despicably 
weak? Why couldn’t one always live up to one’s best 
instead of sinking so readily to one’s worst? . . . 

These thoughts companioned her like a cloud of gnats 
as she hurried up to her attic studio. 

When she had gone Yule turned to Jessamy. 

“ Nanetty’s bark is worse than her bite, but her heart 
is warmer than she pretends,” he said. 

Jessamy made a little face. “ I was afraid you were 
going to say it was of gold.” 

“ Well, it is,” said Yule smiling. “ Life itself is full 
of cliches, Jessamy. We can’t escape them.” 

“ That would be too much to expect, I suppose.” 

Silence fell for a moment before Nanetty returned, 
some rather dusty canvases under each arm. 

“ These are some copies I did for my own pleasure 
before I sold my soul to old Brand,” she said rather 
breathlessly, laying them down face upwards on the table. 

Some were excellent copies of Dutch interiors. One, 
an old woman peeling onions into a red earthenware 
bowl, was full of the colour that Jessamy desired. She 
pounced on it at once. 

“ But these are charming,” she cried, in swift surprise. 
“ Did you do them?” She looked at Nanetty with 
dawning respect. 

“ Yes, but they’re only copies.” 

“ What matter? They’re awfully well done.” 

Yule looked from one to the other proudly. He longed 
more than words could say for a rapport between these 
two dear women whom he loved so differently. 


140 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“Isn’t this a delightful thing?” he said, pulling for¬ 
ward a study of old red-brown houses at a street comer. 

Jessamy bent over it, then glanced up with a look of 
surprise. “ But I know this quite well. My father 
bought the original. It’s in the library at Tudor Lodge.” 

Nanetty laughed shortly. “ You must be making a 
mistake. Your father must have bought a copy. The 
original is in Lady Havant’s house in St. James’s Square. 
I got special permission to copy it.” 

“ I’m sure I’m not making a mistake. I’m quite cer¬ 
tain that Dad bought the original. He was so proud of 
it. His real old Dutch, he used to call it,” Jessamy per¬ 
sisted. 

“ I assure you that the original picture belongs to 
Lady Havant,” said Nanetty shortly. 

Jessamy opened her lips as if to speak, then closed 
them again and gave her shoulders a little shrug, as if to 
dismiss the subject. She knew quite well that she was 
right, but she was not going to pursue an acrimonious 
argument which could lead to nothing, as each pro¬ 
tagonist was firmly convinced that she was right and the 
other wrong. 

“ I loved those old houses so much that I did one copy 
for old Brand and another for myself. Perhaps your 
father bought my copy from old Brand,” Nanetty sug¬ 
gested. 

“ Who is old Brand?” 

“ He runs the Leyden Gallery in Kensington. I — 
copy pictures for him, principally Italian Primitives and 
Dutch interiors. He finds a ready sale for them, he 
tells me.” 

“ I don’t know anything about old Brand or the Ley¬ 
den Gallery, nor do I know where Dad bought that 
picture. He picked it up, he said. He was firmly con¬ 
vinced that it was an original.” Jessamy’s lips set them¬ 
selves obstinately. 

“ It’s a common delusion amongst owners of pictures,” 


MARSHLIGHT 


141 


returned Nanetty dryly. Then she turned to the can¬ 
vases on the table. “ How many of these would you like, 
or do you care for any?” 

“ I’d love them all,” cried Jessamy warmly. “ But 
that would be too greedy. Would it be too much if I 
took three — these two interiors and that one of the 
canal with the woman scrubbing her copper pots on the 
steps? They have just the colouring I want.” 

“Not the old houses?” 

“ Of course not that one, Nanetty,” cried Yule, 
amazed at his cousin’s tactlessness. “ Jessamy doesn’t 
want to be reminded-” 

“ Sorry,” interposed Nanetty gruffly, reaching out her 
long arms and gathering up the discarded pictures. 
“ Well, those three shall be my wedding present to you 
and Yule. If you take down those eyesores they can be 
stacked in there under the pantry shelf until we find 
some dealer misguided enough to buy them. I think I 
know a man who goes in for that early Victorian stuff.” 

“ Good,” said Yule. “ Thank you most awfully, old 
thing. I’ll see about getting those pictures framed this 
very day.” 

“ Yes, and we can also hunt for something to cover 
those chairs with, immediately after lunch,” said Jessamy 
eagerly. “Look! the bottoms slide out. You could nail 
the stuff on quite easily, Yule, couldn’t you?” 

“ Absolutely.” 

“ Don’t forget that it’s Saturday and that most of the 
shops will be shut,” Nanetty reminded them as she left 
the room. 

Jessamy’s face fell. She looked as crestfallen as a 
child who is suddenly deprived of a new toy. It hurt 
Yule to see her disappointment. . . . Why need 

Nanetty have thrust her blunt practicality across their 
plans? ... He sought hastily for reassurance. 

“ I don’t believe the Chelsea shops shut on Saturday,” 
he declared stoutly. “ Chelsea is a village, remember. 



142 


MARSH LIGHTS 


We’re bound to find a picture-framer’s open anyhow. 
. . . Would you like those dull flat gold frames? 

And we’ll hunt up some one who sells plain net curtains, 
which we can put up temporarily instead of those atroci¬ 
ties. What do you say?” 

“ I say that you are really rather nice,” returned Jes- 
samy unexpectedly. 

Yule’s heart leaped as if he had received an accolade, 
though all he said was a quick, shy: “ I’m glad you 
think so!” 


VI 

There followed for Jessamy Amber a period which, 
had she owned sufficient mental detachment to enable 
her to analyze it, she would have found to contain many 
of the component parts of happiness. She had recovered 
from the first effects of her shock. She was young, 
alert, alive, in spite of the numb inner ache which still 
companioned her. Her days were full and busy: almost 
too busy for thought. 

She really enjoyed the processes of house renovation, 
which called upon resources which had never been tapped 
in her before. With unconscious wisdom she left Mrs. 
Daylight practically to her own devices. That astute 
lady knew how to humour her new mistress, and as she 
was really a capable woman, the domestic wheels re¬ 
volved fairly smoothly. 

Nanetty, busy with her painting, kept to her attics as 
much as possible, not always even appearing at meals. 
Her system of withdrawal was the best policy at present 
for the newly-married couple, she felt. They did not 
want her, nor she them. 

There were few drastic alterations required at No. 1, 
Caroline Place, much to her relief; for neither Yule nor 
Jessamy seemed to apprehend the real value of money 
where their artistic necessities were concerned. All the 


MARSHLIGHT 


143 


woodwork in the house had been painted a dark oak- 
brown by Henry Nimmo’s instructions. This paint, 
having had no ill-usage, was still in excellent order. 

The drawing-room had been used only on Sundays by 
the old man himself, who had not altered the late ten¬ 
ant’s decorations of grey distempered walls and white 
frieze and mouldings. Here he had hung his mother’s 
curtains of old-gold damask which Jessamy declared 
delightedly to be “ the absolutely right thing.” The 
carpet had faded to a medley of soft colours. The furni¬ 
ture needed only weeding and re-arranging to her own 
taste. 

“ The room would be perfect if only I had my own 
special things in it,” she said one afternoon. “ My old 
Boule writing-desk that Dad gave me and some water¬ 
colours that I loved. A particular chair or two.” 

“ Why don’t you write and ask Mrs. Wyatt to send 
them to you?” Yule asked, adding hastily: “ Not direct, 
of course, but through Mr. Heppel, as she did with your 
trunks? . . . Have you ever answered her letter, by 

the way?” 

Jessamy reddened. “ No. There was nothing to 
answer in it. Nothing I could say, I mean, unless I 
made up my mind to confess that I was mistaken and 
wished to — to open up relations with her again. I 
don’t want to do that. I can’t do it.” 

Yule was silent for a moment. His silences always 
seemed accusatory to Jessamy, though nothing was 
farther from his intention. They had reached a certain 
surface intimacy in their relations, but it was a case of 
“ Thus far and no farther.” An angel with a flaming- 
sword barred the way to anything closer. At times the 
strain fretted Yule’s nerves, but Jessamy was not to know 
that. For her, life held a certain ease, a certain pleasant¬ 
ness which she had not known hitherto. There were 
none of the fears and tremors, the passions, the exalta¬ 
tions of her intercourse with Lucas Grote. She could 


144 


MARSH LIGHTS 


laugh and talk with Yule Amber as she had never 
laughed and talked with him. He had been too fierce, 
too possessive a lover for the cooler interludes of real 
conversation, that pleasant friction of mind against 
mind which polishes companionship to the ultimate 
jewel of understanding. 

At last Yule said: “It wouldn’t hurt you to forgive 
her, Jessamy, even if you do believe the worst of her. I 
don’t know what she said to you in her letter, but-” 

Jessamy’s eyes flashed. “ Palaver! Nothing but 
palaver. Wounded feelings, hurt amazement at my 
attitude, disappointment at my hopeless misunderstand¬ 
ing. . . . Tosh!” 

“ Jessamy, she swore on her honour to me-” 

“ On her honour? . . . Did she really? You didn’t 
tell me that before.” Jessamy’s breath quickened. 

“ Didn’t I? I thought I did. I’m almost sure I did.” 

“ No. You didn’t.” Jessamy paused, visibly shaken. 
“ Even Claire would scarcely-” 

“ Don’t say ‘ even Claire ’ like that.” 

“ Why, Yule, I believe you’re half in love with her 
yourself!” cried Jessamy with a scornful little laugh. 

Yule stared at her, speechless, his face suddenly suf¬ 
fused with anger. 

“ How dare you?” he cried fiercely. “ How dare 

you-” and then stopped, choked by his own sudden 

fury. 

How could she have said such a thing, much less 
thought it? She, to whom he had given everything that 
she would let him give and much which she never even 
suspected! He turned abruptly to the window. He 
could not trust himself to speak. 

Jessamy looked at his stiffened back half in dismay, 
half in amusement. She did not understand his sudden 
anger. What had there been to annoy him so much in 
her silly laughing suggestion? . . . And they had 

been getting on so nicely, too! She had just begun to 






MARSHLIGHT 


145 


flatter herself that their rash experiment was turning out 
quite a success. Convention had not picked up the glove 
thrown so defiantly at her feet. They had not been so 
rash in their challenge, after all. They were stronger 
than she. . . . But now- 

It was on this sharp-edged silence that Mrs. Daylight 
opened the door and, flinging it wide in what she con¬ 
sidered the correct manner, announced: 

“ Mrs. Chalfont-Smy —! ” 


VII 

Into the room and across the silence sailed Mrs. Chal- 
font-Smythe, with outstretched white-gloved hand and 
air of friendly patronage. 

“ I thought that it was kinder to let you alone until 
you were quite settled, Mrs. Amber,’’ she said graciously. 
“ Still, even in this unconventional age les convenances 
must be observed, mustn’t they?” 

“ Oh, quite,” murmured Jessamy, recovering her poise 
with an effort. “ Have you met my — my husband, Mrs. 
Smythe — Mr. Amber?” 

“ I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting Mr. 
Amber though I sometimes saw him in Caroline Place in 
poor old Mr. Nimmo’s day. A devoted nephew, I must 
say.” Mrs. Chalfont-Smythe beamed at Yule in his 
turn. 

He murmured deprecatingly, “ Cousin,” as he placed 
a chair for her. 

Mrs. Chalfont-Smythe looked round her with undis¬ 
guised interest, ignoring his correction. 

“How you have transformed this room!” she ex¬ 
claimed. “ Poor Mr. Nimmo! ... A man’s room, 
you know. . . . But now it is more like what it was 
in Mrs. Tudor’s day.” 

*“ Mrs. Tudor?” queried Jessamy politely. 

* See the Author’s earlier novel, “ Drifting Waters.” 



146 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ She lived here with her young daughter, Anne, 
before Mr. Nimmo bought the house. Lived and died 
here, I may say. . . . Ah, she was a romantic, mys¬ 
terious figure. Exclusive. Very much the grande dame1 
What a manner! What an air! . . . Anne was a 

strange, interesting-looking child, but not a patch on her 
mother. A sad history, poor dear!” Mrs. Chalfont- 
Smythe nodded her smart toque sympathetically, though 
she had known no more of the late Mrs. Tudor’s history 
than the rest of the outer world: which was but little. 

“ That sounds intriguing,” said Jessamy, rising like a 
child to the bait of a story. 

“ Quite the word to suit poor dear Mrs. Tudor. She 
was intriguing, if you like, in the French sense, of course. 
She always reminded me rather of the pictures du Mau- 
rier used to draw in ‘ Punch ’ long ago, she was so tall, so 
aristocratic-looking — a word which has ceased to have 
meaning now-a-days, I fear. M. du Savenay, a dear 
friend of mine, who spent his last days in my house, was 
a great admirer of hers also. Another of the aristocrats, 
of the old French noblesse, you know — fallen on evil 
days.” She sighed heavily, and shook her head. “ Quel 
dommagel ... He died, of a broken heart, I think, 
shortly after Mrs. Tudor’s death.” 

“ But what was Mrs. Tudor’s history?” asked Jes¬ 
samy, more from a desire to promote conversation than 
from any real curiosity. 

“ Ah, my dear Mrs. Amber, let the grave keep its 
secrets. I mustn’t divulge hers, poor dear.” 

From Mrs. Chalfont-Smythe’s melancholy, secretive 
manner one would never have guessed that she had no 
more than the general surface knowledge of the dead 
woman’s affairs. Jessamy felt as if she had perhaps 
been rather intrusive, but some faint instinctive feeling 
of antagonism made her determine not to lower her crest 
before this ample, self-satisfied lady. 

“ What became of the daughter?” she pursued. 


MARSHLIGHT 


147 


“Ah, dear Anne! . . . She married a sort of 

family connection, a Dr. Assheton. They live in Egypt 
now, I believe. Anne had quite a fortune of her own. 
They are doing very well, I hear, and have two or three 
children.” 

“ How many children has the lady next door?” asked 
Jessamy, just saving herself from saying “woman”; a 
term which, she felt sure, would have sounded offensive 
to Mrs. Chalfont-Smythe’s refined ears. 

“ Mrs. Waldron, you mean? Six,” Mrs. Chalfont- 
Smythe answered. “ Two go to a day school. The 
others aren’t old enough yet.” 

“ They are jolly kiddies,” said Yule. “I’ve made 
friends with half-a-dozen or so of them already.” 

“ But, my dear Mr. Amber, there are only six of them 
altogether! ” 

Yule laughed and Jessamy hastily interposed: 

“ You mustn’t mind my husband. He always exag¬ 
gerates frightfully.” 

The quickened look in Yule’s face at mention of the 
children next door stirred some vague feeling of uneasi¬ 
ness within her. He had never spoken of them before. 
She had not known whether children appealed to him or 
not. That side of their own personal question had 
never presented itself to her. But if Yule wanted chil¬ 
dren! . . . 

“It was a little habit of my husband’s also,” Mrs. 
Chalfont-Smythe was saying. “ But Percy is the soul of 
accuracy.” 

Yule cast a puzzled glance at Jessamy. The good 
lady continued: “ That is what makes him such a good 
bridge-player. Do you and your husband play, Mrs. 
Amber?” 

“ I do. Do you, Yule?” 

“ Yes, I like a game occasionally.” 

“ Then you must come in some evening for a rubber 
with me. Quite quietly, you know. We occasionally 


148 


MARSH LIGHTS 


have the Waldrons in, but Mrs. Waldron isn’t much use. 
Too much of the Martha, you know.” 

“ No wonder, with six babies to make and mend for,” 
said Yule, again with that look that had pricked 
Jessamy. 

“ They are not all babies, Mr. Amber,” explained Mrs. 
Chalfont-Smythe patiently. “ Nancy and Johnny are 
seven and nine.” 

“ Quite venerable ages,” smiled Yule. 

“ They certainly have more sense than the younger 
children. Mr. Smythe is very fond of them. He con¬ 
stantly brings them home sweets or fruit from the City. 
He always has a party for them on his birthday.” 

“ How very kind of him! ” said Jessamy. 

“Ah, Percy has a heart of gold!” breathed Mrs. 
Chalfont-Smythe, smiling rather self-consciously, as if 
the credit were in some measure due to her. 

Yule and Jessamy exchanged glances unperceived, 
mutual understanding once more restored. Then Yule 
said unexpectedly: 

“ If you want any one to help you to entertain the 
kiddies I should be delighted, Mrs. Chalfont-Smythe. I 
used to be able to do some simple conjuring tricks that 
might be useful, if my right hand hasn’t forgotten its 
cunning.” 

“ Many thanks, indeed, Mr. Amber. I’m sure it will 
be a great help to Percy, who gets very exhausted after 
these parties. We shall be charmed to see you and Mrs. 
Amber, too, if she cares to come. His birthday will be 
next month. I’ll remind you more formally when the 
time draws nearer. May we count on you, too, Mrs. 
Amber?” 

“I’m afraid I shouldn’t be of much use,” Jessamy 
demurred, urged by some contradictory impulse. “ I 
don’t know anything about children. I don’t even know 
what to say to them.” 

“ You’ll never learn younger.” Yule thrust his favour- 


MARSHLIGHT 


149 


ite axiom at her with an eager, rather questioning 
glance, which she ignored. 

Mrs. Chalfont-Smythe rose with the indulgent smile of 
a prospective Lucina, as who should say, “ That knowl¬ 
edge will come of itself inevitably and in due course, my 
dear young people. Tout vient, you know-” 

“ Then we may count at any rate on you, Mr. Amber, 
for what I always call le P’tit’s jour de jete?” 

“ Le P’tit?” echoed Yule, wondering if she meant the 
plural. 

Mrs. Chalfont-Smythe smiled deprecatingly and shook 
her head. 

“ I’m afraid that is my foolish little pet-name for 
Percy. He is small of stature, you know, but as I said 
before, he has a heart of gold.” 

“ That’s the main thing, isn’t it?” Yule rejoined with 
a smile that completely won her good graces. 

When her adieux had been said Yule saw her to the 
hall-door and then came back to where Jessamy was 
contemplating what were to her the blank spots in her 
drawing-room. 

“ There, behind the new Chesterfield, the writing-desk 
could go, and the Venetian Sketches Dad gave me would 
look just right on those grey walls.” She looked up as 
Yule entered, her thoughts switched back once more to 
their visitor. 

“ Yule, isn’t she priceless? . . . Have you ever 

seen le P’tit? I have. He is exactly like a pick-axe, all 
nose and sloping-back head and chin! Quite a good- 
looking pick-axe, I admit, but still a pick-axe, tout court, 
as Mrs. Chalfont-Smythe would be sure to say.” 

Yule went over and leaned on the back of her chair. 
“ He has his points evidently.” 

“Yes. His nose is one of them,” retorted Jessamy 
flippantly. “ Do you mind moving away a little? It 
worries me to have you breathing down the back of my 
neck.” 


ISO 


MARSH LIGHTS 


Yule’s nearness did not really worry her. She was 
moved by a sudden impulse to try an experiment. She 
had once made a similar remark to Lucas Grote and in 
response he had merely stooped down and lifted her out 
of the chair into his arms. 

“Worries you, does it? You little witch!” he had 
murmured. “ It’s good for you to be worried by me.” 
Then he had kissed the back of her neck a dozen times 
before he let her go, declaring that her hair tickled him. 

Yule just moved away quickly with a muttered 
“ Sorry.” By turning a little she could see the outline 
of a slightly reddened cheek-bone against the window. 
The sight half-hurt, half-annoyed her, and spurred her 
on to experiment still further. 

“ Yule, do you really like children, or were you only 
putting it on for Mrs. Chalfont-Smythe’s benefit?” 

Yule swung round to face her, more astonished than 
anything else at her implication. 

“ Really, Jessamy!” he said half laughing. 

“ Really what?” asked Jessamy provokingly. 

“ Do you think me such a hypocrite?” 

“Then you really do like children?” said Jessamy 
slowly, leaving his accusatory question unanswered. 

“ Yes. I really do like children,” he replied, turning 
back to the window again. 

Two little girls were bowling hoops along the footpath 
by the river. The March wind had ripped the dead 
leaves of the plane-trees from the pavement to which the 
rain had stuck them and now whirled them before its 
sharp tonic breath, whisking scraps of paper and bits of 
straw across the road in a quick erratic dance. There 
was a stir of new life in the air, and more than a hint of 
Spring with its urge of the rising sap. Yule Amber 
moved restlessly. 

“ If you’ve nothing more for me to do here,” he said, 
“ I think I’ll go out to the back garden and start some 
of the crazy paving.” 


MARSHLIGHT 


151 


Jessamy looked at him and away again. “ There’s 
nothing more to be done to this room until—unless I get 
my things from Tudor Lodge. Isn’t that rather a funny 
coincidence, by the way? I came from Tudor Lodge to 
live here where Tudors lived before me! I wonder if 
there’s any hidden connection?” 

But Yule, always quick to follow a thread or antici¬ 
pate a point, only answered abstractedly: 

“ Scarcely, I fancy, beyond the mere coincidence of 
names. . . . Will you come out and give me the 

benefit of your advice, or is it too cold for you?” 

Jessamy jumped up. “ Not a bit. I’ll put on my fur 
coat. Next year we can have scillas and snowdrops 
growing up through the cracks in the pavement and dif¬ 
ferent sorts of thyme that will smell deliciously when 
you tread on it, especially after rain. The minute the 
place is ready we must buy a bird bath. That needn’t 
wait.” 

“No,” Yule said. Next year? What would have 
happened by next year? He was suddenly aware of the 
stones and briars that beset his path. The steepness of 
the climb which he had set himself to accomplish. Per 
aspera ad astra! . . . Were the stars really there, 

after all? Were they but an illusion and only the 
rough road real? . . . “I’ll fetch your fur coat for 
you.” 

He went quickly out of the room, leaving Jessamy to 
a whirl of contradictory thoughts and one piece of definite 
knowledge: the realization that here she had shut a door 
deliberately between Yule and something which he 
ardently desired: something which she ought to be ready 
to give him, but never would or could. 

She wondered, with a sudden hot sense of resentment, 
if she would have liked Yule any better had he knocked 
down and trampled over the frail barrier that divided 
them and snatched her up to impose his own will on her. 
as Lucas Grote would undoubtedly have done. 


152 


MARSH LIGHTS 


With a quick revulsion she hid her burning face in her 
hands. 

“No, no, no,” she told herself. “I’d hate him! I’d 
hate him!” 

Then, as in a lightning flash, she realized that it was 
only Yule’s absolute honesty and chivalry which made 
their life together at all possible. She had flattered her¬ 
self that it was she who had brought sweetness and light 
into his drab days. Now she saw that it was he who had 
brought it into hers: that it was he who, by a thousand 
unnamed, unnoticed reticences and delicacies, forbear¬ 
ances and trifling acts of thoughtfulness, was piling up 
a debt against her which she would never be able to pay. 

For a moment she could almost have wished that Yule 
were brutal enough to ignore her defences, over-rule her 
puny defiance and take what was indubitably his right by 
force, so that she could feel less heavily indebted and 
own a legitimate grievance against him. But she stifled 
the ugly thought as he came once more into the room 
with her fur coat over his arm. Body and spirit alike 
rebelled. 

“ You could go to the Arctic regions in this, I believe,” 
he said with a smile on his kind lips that blinded her to 
the sadness of his eyes. 

“ I was just wishing that I could hate you, Yule,” she 
cried impulsively. 

“ Why?” he asked, astonished. , 

“ Because then I shouldn’t feel so mean,” she answered, 
reddening. “ I take all and give nothing.” 

His eyes brightened. He took a step towards her. 

“ Do you mean-? Could you-?” 

“ I don’t mean anything,” she answered hastily, re¬ 
gretting her impulse. She jumped up, went over to him 
and slipped her hand through his arm. “ Come on and 
let’s start the crazy paving. I’m pining to see how it 
looks.” 

“ Come along then,” said Yule. “ You mustn’t pine.” 




MARSHLIGHT 


153 


He took advantage of the necessary opening of the 
door to remove from his arm that light tantalizing pres¬ 
sure. Such close contact with her had already become 
more than he could bear. 

VIII 

It is axiomatic that love — Dan Chaucer’s “ sweete 
Hell and sorrowful Paradis ”—never stands still. It 
grows with what it feeds upon, and to the successful 
lover the kissed finger-tip is but the prelude to the lips. 
But for the lover who gets neither lips nor finger-tips, 
whose garden of Paradise is walled round but by a spirit¬ 
ual barrier which he himself has erected, who is himself 
his own “ fever and pain,” the fire of his love is fanned 
inevitably to a veritable flame of his particular “ sweete 
Hell,” consuming, devouring. 

Nanetty alone was conscious of the fever that fretted 
Yule Amber. She saw it with a feeling of helpless 
exasperation at her own impotence. . . . How was it 
that that foolish girl did not fall down at his feet and 
worship him? How was it that that idiotic Yule didn’t 
take her by the shoulders and shake her into submission? 
She was of the type that needed bullying, Nanetty 
thought. If she were Yule she would try what catching 
Jessamy by the hair and dragging her round the back 
garden a few times would do! 

Her lips curled at her own exaggerations. She and 
Yule were rather fond of clothing their thoughts a little 
extravagantly. It had often seemed to make up for their 
necessary bodily economies. She searched on her palette 
for a last touch of that clear rose-red which she had 
achieved for her Italian pictures after much experiment. 
She must finish this copy before she went down to supper. 
. . . Not a scrap was left. She would have to mix 
some more. What a nuisance! 

She hastily squeezed out a little of each of the 


154 


MARSH LIGHTS 


necessary colours, anathematizing her own carelessness 
as she did so. 

The light in the white-washed attic, with its sloping 
ceiling, was rapidly going. In the greenish sky a star 
or two already twinkled. The picture she was copying — 
a stiff little early Italian Madonna with angels — stood 
on an easel near the one at which she was working. She 
frowned as she bent to catch the last glimmer of the 
waning April twilight, painting in her final touches 
rapidly. 

The jewel-like colouring of the pictures and the strong 
gleam of her own red hair made the only spots of bright¬ 
ness in the room. She frowned again at the sound of 
footsteps coming rapidly up the attic stairs. 

“ Can’t they let me alone?” she thought crossly. 
“ One can’t put down a painting as one would a bit of 
needle-work.” 

The door opened and Yule’s face peeped round it, a 
white wedge in the dusk, but a cheerful mask withal. 

“ Hallo, old thing! Not finished yet?” 

“ No. What’s the hurry? I can’t come down until 
this is done. You know I don’t mind whether my 
supper’s hot or cold.” 

“ Or whether it’s called dinner or not,” returned Yule 
good-humouredly. “ I can’t help feeling amused at the 
ready way in which Mrs. Daylight calls our meals 
luncheon and dinner now, but makes no difference what¬ 
soever in the menus thereof!” 

“ I’m glad you’re so easily amused,” said Nanetty 
tartly. “ To me it seems merely silly.” 

“ What’s the matter, Nanetticoat?” asked Yule in 
surprise. 

Nanetty put down her palette on the table near her 
with a jerk and dumped her brushes into the turpentine- 
pot. 

“ You’re the matter, if you must know it.” 

“I? What have I done now?” 


MARSHLIGHT 155 

“It’s what you haven’t done that worries me,” 
Nanetty said. 

“ Sorry for my sins of omission, old girl, but I can’t 
imagine what you’re driving at.” 

“ Honest Injun?” asked Nanetty curtly. 

“ Honest Injun,” Yule answered. 

The outlines of cheek and chin had sharpened pain¬ 
fully, Nanetty thought, but the clear grey eyes held only 
a genuine perplexity beside the sadness that tugged at 
her heart-strings. 

“ Very well, then,” she said, clearing her throat. “ I’d 
better tell you a little story which I read some time ago 
and which has stuck in my memory rather persistently.” 

“ Fire away,” said Yule, seating himself on the edge 
of the table and dabbing the brushes up and down in the 
turpentine-pot. 

“ It was about a marriage a la mode in the old French 
days.” 

“ Oh!” said Yule, checking his hand. 

Without looking at him she saw him stiffen. Never¬ 
theless she continued: “ This marriage had been ar¬ 
ranged between a Marquis and a girl who was many 
years younger than he. She saw him only once before 
the ceremony. She was half dead with fright and nerv¬ 
ousness when they were left alone together on their 
wedding-day. The Marquis, who was a man of the 
world and who had fallen madly in love with his young 
bride, exerted himself to amuse her and to set her at 
ease. That night he escorted her to her bedroom door, 
where he left her, having kissed her hand and wished her 
good repose and happy dreams. The next day he con¬ 
tinued these tactics, keeping her amused all day and 
parting from her respectfully at night. During the three 
weeks’ honeymoon that followed he surrounded her with 
every delicate attention that the heart of man could 
devise, never trespassing farther than a kiss of her hand 
at the nightly leave-taking. At the end of the three 


156 


MARSH LIGHTS 


weeks one night when the Marquis had retired as usual 
he was roused by a knocking at his door. 

“ It was his bride, who ran to him and flung her arms 
around him. She was frightened almost to death by a 
burglar, she declared. She had heard a noise in her room 
and was terrified to return to it!” Nanetty paused. 
After a moment Yule’s voice came across the dusk 
rather forbiddingly. 

“ A charming tale and quite in the French manner, 
but I confess that the point has escaped me.” 

“ Has it?” asked Nanetty dryly. She was silent for 
an instant, then she said in the same significant tone: 
“ Yule, don’t you think it’s about time for that burglar 
to visit Caroline Place?” 

The silence that followed lasted only for seconds, yet 
it seemed hours to Nanetty before he hurled a violent: 

“Good God, how indecent women are!” across the 
stillness at her. She caught her breath at the sudden 
gulf that yawned between them. He seemed to be at an 
immense distance from her, too far away now for any 
contact. Nevertheless she continued her effort: 

“ Thanks. ... If you mean me I am going to be 
more indecent still. . . . Yule, you’re a fool!” she 

broke out. “ Why don’t you make your marriage a real 
marriage, instead of the gruesome mockery it is? I 
don’t profess to know from personal experience, but 
married women have told me what a real tangible thing 
the marriage-bond is, how it gives a man a peculiarly 
definite hold over a woman, a claim which she can never 
deny-” 

“ It would scarcely appear so from even a cursory study 
of the Divorce Lists,” interrupted Yule coldly. 

Nanetty plunged on, hot-cheeked, but undaunted. 

“ Well, it’s a definite hold, a definite claim. In your 
case I believe it would work. You see you’ve never made 
Jessamy feel bound to you in any way. At present her 
attitude is rather that of a person on a first visit to a 



MARSHLIGHT 


157 


foreign country. Everything is new to her, big things 
and trifles alike. Even the language has a spice of 
novelty. Wait until that wears off, until she meets some 
of her old circle again and her early life begins to re¬ 
assert its former pull. You may lose her altogether 
unless you have some definite, tangible, real claim on her, 
unless you make her feel that she belongs absolutely to 
you and that her duty is towards you and you only.” 
She felt rather than saw Yule’s eyes on her as he an¬ 
swered with a difficult restraint. 

“ If I understand you aright you are advocating the 
tactics of the caveman. . . . When I gave Jessamy 
the shelter of my house and name I had no intention of 
stunning her into physical submission, nor have I now. 
You and I apparently differ in our opinions as to what 
constitutes a real marriage. My idea is a union of body 
and soul in which love gives freely and willingly. Yours, 
obviously, is a physical union only, where lust ravishes 
at will. That wasn’t the sort of marriage I promised 
Jessamy. She offered . . . but I’m not a cave-man, 
after all.” He stopped and looked searchingly at Nanetty, 
who stood facing him with her hands on the back of a 
chair. “ The gloves are off now with a vengeance,” he 
said, with a queer little smile. 

“ Thank God, we’ve always been able to be frank with 
each other,” she cried. “ If — if I didn’t care for you so 
much I’d let you cut your throat in your own way, but 

as it is I can’t stand by and see-” she lifted her 

hands in a sudden hopeless gesture. 

“ Do you think I don’t realize that, old thing?” said 
Yule, with a disconcerting return to friendliness and 
normality, which made Nanetty feel even more impo¬ 
tent than she had done before. “ Perhaps I’m not cut¬ 
ting my throat, after all-” 

“ I’m really very angry with you both,” cried a gay 
voice behind them. “ Yule, didn’t I send you up specially 
to bring Nanetty down? I don’t believe you ever told 




158 


MARSH LIGHTS 


her about the sweetbreads. I’ve given your share to 
Daylight to keep hot for you, Nanetty, but it won’t be 
a bit nice now. What on earth are you conspiring about 
up here? You can conspire as much as you like down¬ 
stairs and I’ll go away if you wish.” 

In the dusk they could only see each other’s faces as 
white blurs. No incriminating expressions were visible. 

Jessamy’s little scolding gave Nanetty time to get a 
grip on herself again, and Yule had recaptured his normal 
poise some minutes before her unexpected entrance. 

“ Nanetty was seizing the golden opportunity of giving 
me a thorough wigging,” Yule declared as lightly as he 
could. “ You’ll stand up for me, won’t you, Jessamy?” 

“ Of course I will,” she cried, coming up to him and 
slipping her hand through his arm. “ What was it all 
about?” 

It seemed to Nanetty as if the two shadowy figures 
linked themselves together in the dusk as if to mock her 
puny attempts at interference, so prettily wifely was 
Jessamy’s attitude of instant partnership, so husband¬ 
like Yule’s quick appeal for her support. 

She drew her breath sharply as she turned away. 

“ It would be a pity to let those sweetbreads bum,” 
she said, with a curl of her lip at the inevitable intrusion 
of meals and routine upon even the most pressing mo¬ 
ments of life. “ I’d better go down, I suppose.” 

“ Oh, they won’t be burnt, I assure you,” said Jes¬ 
samy lightly, turning to follow her, her hand still within 
Yule’s arm. “ That’s the advantage of having at least 
two practical people in the house.” 

“ Meaning?” queried Yule, with mock anxiety. 

“ Myself and Daylight, of course.” 

“What cheek!” said Yule, stepping back to hold 
open the door for her. Jessamy gave him a quick little 
questioning glance as she passed through. 

“ There’s something uncanny in talking like this to 
each other through the gloom. We might be shadows 


MARSHLIGHT 


159 


or ghosts,” she said, with an odd note in her voice. 

Yule did not guess that for the first time she wondered 
whether his avoidance of her touch were accidental or 
deliberate. He had become so skilful in his withdrawals 
and evasions that it never occurred to him that she could 
possibly have noticed anything. 

He forgot Nanetty’s diatribe, even his own ever- 
increasing burden for a moment in a rapt contemplation 
of the poise of Jessamy’s head as she went lightly down 
the stairs in front of him, and in wondering if he could 
ever capture its distracting line for his fantastic illustra¬ 
tions to Ruskin’s “ Birthday Wish.” 

He had taken the bedroom behind Jessamy’s for his 
own use and used the little room in which he had slept 
on the first night as his study. The view of the river 
drew him as with a spell. The changing water-way held 
magic in its moonlit dusks, its morning mists and its 
daylight clarity. Here, in the narrow room with its 
sunny primrose-washed walls, he found refuge, battle¬ 
ground and workshop, all in one. It was, for him, a 
veritable clearing-ground of the emotions, such as he 
thought he should never have needed again: such short¬ 
ness of vision demonstrating clearly that to-day can never 
peer successfully over the rim of to-morrow. 

He opened the door now and went in, letting the two 
women go downstairs without him. 

IX 

“ Dear Mrs. Amber, 

“ We shall be so pleased if you and Mr. Amber will 
both come to the little party we are giving for the Wal¬ 
dron children on Friday next, the 11th instant, from 
A —7. If Miss Cotes cares to come as well we shall be 
very glad to see her also. 

“ With kind regards and hoping you will all come, 

“ Sincerely yours, 

“ Camilla Chalfont-Smythe,” 


160 


MARSH LIGHTS 


Jessamy read the letter aloud at the breakfast-table 
and when she had finished looked round to collect 
opinions. 

“ I must say the fair Camilla does us handsomely,” 
said Yule. “ I shall certainly go. What about you, 
Nanetty?” 

“ I am only thrown in as an after-thought,” returned 
Nanetty, “but I believe I’d rather like to go, all the 
same. Some of those kiddies have a refreshing amount 
of original sin in them.” 

Yule turned to Jessamy. His eyes had sought her 
first, but she had not been looking at him and Nanetty 
had, hence his question to the latter. 

“ You’ll come, too, won’t you?” he said now. 

Some imp of perversity entered Jessamy. . . . She 

was not going to be taken for granted like that. 

She shook her head and a spark of defiance shone in her 
great dark eyes. 

“ Not I. The thought of three hours in the company 
of the Chalfont-Smythes and a crowd of noisy children 
doesn’t appeal to me in the least.” 

Nanetty’s grey glance flicked over her. Yule said 
nothing for a moment. Then he returned quietly: “ So 
that’s that. If you don’t want to go of course you 
needn’t. By the way, have we got any decent cards in 
the house? I’ll want some for my conjuring tricks.” 

“ I bought two packs the other day,” said Jessamy. 
“ They’re in the drawer in that bookcase.” 

“ I’ll only need one. I must mark some of the cards 
for my tricks. It won’t spoil them in the least. Only 
myself or an expert could tell what my little pricks 
mean.” 

“We must be careful not to play bridge with those 
cards,” said Nanetty smiling. 

Yule smiled back. If he felt any disappointment at 
Jessamy’s decision he did not show it. When breakfast 
was over he rose, took the pack of cards out of the 



MARSHLIGHT 


161 


drawer slipped it into his pocket and went upstairs. 

Jessamy took up the newspaper and opened it. Nan- 
etty sat in silence for a moment, then she, too, got up 
and pushed back her chair. 

“ Have you finished, Jessamy?” she asked. 

“ Quite, thanks.” 

“ Then I may as well clear away.” 

“ I wish you wouldn’t,” said Jessamy from behind 
her paper. 

“ Why not? It’s no trouble to me, and one gets it 
done while Mrs. Daylight and Emma are making the 
beds. You needn’t bother.” 

“ I’m not going to.” 

“ You don’t much, do you,” asked N,anetty in her 
brusque way. 

“No. Why should I?” 

Nanetty, stacking the plates and cups on a tray, 
ignored that particular question, which, however, she 
promptly countered with another: “Why won’t you go 
to that party?” 

“ Why should I?” asked Jessamy again. 

“ Because it would please Yule.” 

Jessamy lowered her paper and faced Nanetty, bright¬ 
eyed and defiant. 

“ To please Yule! . . . That’s the be-all and end- 
all of your existence, of course!” she flung at her. 

Nanetty did not pick up the childishly thrown gaunt¬ 
let. “Yule is my only living relation in the world,” 
she answered coldly. “ He and I have always meant a 
good deal to each other. I confess that it does give me 
pleasure to please him, although I am not nearly so much 
indebted to him as you are.” 

“ I am quite ready to pay my debts,” flashed Jessamy. 
“ I do pay them. I-” she stopped. 

“ How?” 

Jessamy fell silent. It was rather difficult to explain 
to this coldly angry woman exactly how she did pay her 


162 


MARSH LIGHTS 


debt to Yule. At last she spoke: “ At any rate, I have 
brought harmony to his life.” 

“ Harmony? . . . Good God!” A swift vision 

of that year of quiet homely happiness (in spite of the 
detestable little house in Radnor Crescent) flashed across 
Nanetty’s mind. “ If you mean the house, he’d have 
come to live in Caroline Place in any case.” 

Jessamy glanced round the room with its bowl of 
daffodils on the table, its mellow curtains and chair- 
covers, the glow of the pictures on the grey-green walls: 
then out at the newly-paved garden. 

“ Well, you can’t deny that I’ve improved the place. 
You can put that on my credit side.” 

“ I don’t want to deny it. You have excellent taste. 
I grant you that. But you’re starving Yule in other ways. 
What are you doing to him that has worn him to a 
shadow? He was lean enough before, but he’s thin now 
almost to transparency. Can’t you see that? Are you 
blind?” 

“ Has Yule complained?” 

“Yule . . . ? He wouldn’t complain if he were 

dying!” 

Jessamy looked as she felt, disturbed and uncomfort¬ 
able. What business had Nanetty to harangue her like 
that? Why should the relations between herself and 
Yule concern her? Surely that was a purely personal 
matter between the two of themselves and no business 
of any outsider’s, no matter how close a relation she 
might be. 

She told Nanetty so, in no measured language. When 
she had finished Nanetty looked at her in silence for a 
moment, scorn and contempt in the rain-grey eyes that 
were so like Yule’s in all but expression. Then she said 
in a tone that matched her look. 

“ You’re a very foolish, ignorant girl, and the worst of 
it is that you’re quite old enough and quite clever enough 
to know better,” 


MARSHLIGHT 


163 


With that thrust she left the room, head held high and 
banners flying: yet in her heart lurked the miserable feel¬ 
ing that she had done more harm than good to the cause 
she had so rashly championed. 

Jessamy looked after her, half defiant, half perturbed. 
Nanetty’s onslaught had been that of the bee, who leaves 
her sting behind to rankle in the wound she has made. 

The sting in this case was the bitter truth that once 
again forced itself upon Jessamy’s consciousness: the 
knowledge that in her rash folly she had rushed both 
Yule and herself into a trap from which there was no 
escape. 


X 

“ You won’t change your mind, then?” Some touch of 
pleading underneath the ordinary tone tugged suddenly 
at Jessamy’s heart-strings. 

“ No, Yule.” To soften the uncompromising negative 
she smiled up at him from the corner of the couch where 
she lay curled up with a book in her hand. “ I’d like 

to please you, of course-” Such concession had 

Nanetty’s diatribe extracted! —“ but it wouldn’t please 
you to see me bored to tears for three hours, now would 
it?” 

“ I’d hate it. It would take all the pleasure out of my 

own afternoon. Still-” he stood by the table beside 

the couch and moved the bowl of violets that stood on 
it. “ I don’t believe you’d be so bored, after all.” 

“ Oh, but I should. I know it. It’s an odious day, 
cold and drizzling. I’ve got a log fire and an interesting 
book and am looking forward to a really happy after¬ 
noon.” 

“ Well, that’s something,” Yule declared, pocketing 
his disappointment. “ So am I. Little Molly is a fat 
bundle of dimples and the boy Johnny is a topping little 
chap. . . . Yes, Nanetty, I’m coming,” he said in 




164 


MARSH LIGHTS 


answer to a summons from the hall. “ Good-bye, Jessamy 
dear.” 

“ Good-bye,” smiled Jessamy, holding up a softly- 
rounded cheek towards him. 

Yule shook his head with a whimsical smile. “ Crumbs 
are no earthly use to me,” he said. 

He was gone, leaving Jessamy a-gasp at his cool re¬ 
fusal of the proffered privilege. 

“ Oh, well-” she said, looking after him rather 

resentfully. “ If he doesn’t care, I needn’t. . . . 

Crumbs, indeed! . . .” 

She turned rather indignantly to her book, opened it 
and read a page or two: but to-day the printed word 
had no spell wherewith to bind her. She put the book 
down and gazed at the flames, saffron and crocus-blue, 
that flickered and darted about the resinous pine-logs in 
the grate with a lapping sound. 

In spite of herself her thoughts played like them and 
darted about the two who had just left the house: Yule 
and Nanetty. 

How staunch they were to each other, how loyal! In 
spite of the strangeness of their mutual relations she had 
grown to know them very well during the past two 
months. Sifting her impressions, she found that the chief 
of them was a sense of trust. Yes, although she was 
loath to admit it even to herself, in spite of the little 
jars and differences that occasionally occurred she found 
herself trusting in these two, believing (again in spite 
of herself) in their absolute integrity. There were no 
crooked twists or turns, as far as she could see, about 
either Yule or Nanetty. They ran absolutely straight. 
They were frank and fearless. One could not help 
trusting them, believing in them. That was something 
to have gained after her previous bitter experience: some¬ 
thing to hold on to: something for which she really was 
in their debt. Nanetty was brusque occasionally to 
mannerlessness, but always sincere. Yes, she felt sure 



MARSHLIGHT 


165 


of that. Yule was of different fibre, but equally candid 
and honest. 

A thousand little delicacies, little thoughtfulnesses 
flashed to her mind, crystallized in a single half-remem¬ 
bered phrase: “ He compassed her about with sweet 

observances.” Yes, that was just what Yule did to her. 
He was always considering her, thinking of her, com¬ 
passing her about with sweet observances. And she 
. . . Why hadn’t he kissed her cheek when she offered 
it? Why had he said that crumbs were no use? Wasn’t 
even a crumb better than nothing? Wasn’t it, perhaps, 
a foretaste-? 

The door flew open to admit Mrs. Daylight bearing 
a tea-tray. 

“I done you some toast, mum,” she said cheerfully. 
“ And ’otted h’up these little scones as well.” 

When she had arranged everything as Jessamy liked 
it she paused and said tentatively: “ It’s h’Emma’s day 
h’out, mum.” 

“ Yes, Daylight. What of that?” 

“ H’only this, mum, that the fishmonger h’ain’t sent 
that fish for dinner yet and I think I’d better run round 
and find out why, h’else we shan’t ’ave nothing but that 
scrap of cold beef.” 

“ All right. Run round if you like.” 

“ You won’t mind bein’ in the ’ouse by yourself, mum? 
For a few minutes?” 

“ Not in the least.” 

“ And you’ll h’open the door if h’any one comes. Not 
that there will, h’only the fishmonger might send the 
fish when I’m gone. It would be just the cross way 
things ’appen.” 

“ That will be quite all right.” 

Jessamy, warm and comfortable by the fire, enjoying 
her tea and scones, felt no apprehensions at the thought 
of having the house to herself for half an hour or so. 
Presently she heard the click of the back-door and the 



166 


MARSH LIGHTS 


patter of Mrs. Daylight’s feet up the short flight of the 
area-steps. 

There was something rather pleasant, she thought, in 
having the house absolutely to herself. She felt a certain 
sense of security in the knowledge that no one would 
intrude on her or disturb her peace. She idled most 
pleasantly for a while, dipping into her book as she drank 
her tea. 

When she had finished she put her cup on the tray. 

“ Daylight can take this away when she comes in,” 
she thought. Then suddenly the impulse took her to 
remove the tray herself. She got up lazily from the couch. 
“ I hate seeing the debris of food about.” Thus she 
excused to herself the impulse that prompted her. 

She picked up the tray and, taking it out of the room, 
was about to set it down on the table in the hall when it 
occurred to her that she might as well take it down to the 
kitchen when she was about it. 

A pleasant glow from the range fire greeted her eyes as 
she entered. The red tiles were scrupulously clean, the 
table white and well scrubbed. From the walls the dish- 
covers and copper preserving pan winked a welcome: 
china gleamed on the dresser. 

She laid the tray down on the table. As she did so 
she heard the purring of a taxi-cab in the street outside: 
then the rasp and jerk of its stoppage. The door of the 
cuckoo-clock (Mrs. Daylight’s most cherished possession) 
flew open, and the cuckoo, bowing, intimated in his hollow 
voice that it was five o’clock. 

“ Some more guests for le P’tit’s party,” she thought, 
smiling. Then she gave a violent start as the hall-door 
bell pealed loudly just above her head. 

“ Some one for us,” she thought, as she watched the 
bell quivering. “ It can scarcely be the fishmonger. 
They must be making a mistake.” 

She ran up the kitchen-stairs and into the hall. Her 
heart thudded a little as she opened the door and saw a 


MARSHLIGHT 


167 


tall man in an overcoat standing on the step, with a 
square packet under his arm. 

“ Does Miss Cotes- My God, Jess! . . . You?” 

“ Lucas! ” 

Suddenly the world vanished in a black mist as Jessamy 
clutched wildly, vainly at the door-handle for support. 
For the first time in her healthy young life she fainted. 

XI 

When Jessamy recovered from her faint it was to the 
rapt consciousness that the past interlude had been but 
a bad dream from which she had just awakened. 

She was on the deep couch in the drawing-room at 
Tudor Lodge with Lucas Grote’s arms round her, his 
dear hard cheek pressed closely against hers, his deep 
voice, softened as it always was for her, murmuring inco¬ 
herent love-words in her ear. All was as it had been a 
hundred times before. 

She was the happiest girl in the world instead of the 
unhappiest. The hideous revelation of Claire’s treachery, 
the mad flight into the night, Yule, Nanetty, her im¬ 
possible marriage, all were but the figments of her dream¬ 
ing brain. These things had never really happened. 
They were all part of the nightmare. But what a horribly 
vivid nightmare it had been, so plausible, so apparently 
real! 

The relief of awakening from it had all the wonderful 
intensity of such happenings. She gave a little shiver and 
then a sigh of pure delight as she put up her hand to 
Lucas’s other cheek and drew his face still closer to 
hers. 

“ I knew that it was only a dream,” she murmured, 
with the triumphant wisdom of the newly-awakened. 

Grote caught the groping fingers and kissed them 
fiercely. 

“A nightmare, rather. Why did you do it, Jess? 
Why? Don’t you know I’ve been through hell?” 



168 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ Hell?” 

The word was as a rough touch upon her bubble-bright 
delusion, shattering it instantly. She struggled to free 
herself, and holding her body away from him pushed her 
disordered hair from her eyes, and looked wildly round 
the room. 

It had not been a dream, after all. The firelight 
flickered over the grey walls of Caroline Place. Yule, 
Nanetty, and her marriage were real irrevocable facts. 
She had neither dreamed nor imagined anything. It was 
all too dreadfully true. She trembled suddenly at the 
realization. She wanted to hide her face in her hands 
and cry like a child, but pride held her. She could not 
think coherently. Lucas was too near her, confusing 
her mind. She tried to rise, but found that he was still 
holding her closely. 

“ No, Lucas. You mustn’t. You mustn’t,” she cried 
weakly, trying to push him away. 

“ Why not? You’re mine. I’m never going to let 
you go again.” 

“No, no,” she cried. “ You forget. I’m married.” 

“ I haven’t forgotten it for one instant. How do you 
think I could, after all we’ve been to each other? It’s 
been hell, I tell you.” 

“ Let me go, Lucas. You must let me go.” 

Grote, still in the grip of the passion which the un¬ 
expected sight of her and contact with her soft helpless¬ 
ness had fired anew, tried to re-capture his self-control. 
Instinct told him that the whole course of their future 
relations would be affected by what passed between them 
now. It behooved him to act with the utmost wisdom. 
But how was it possible to be wise when the mere touch 
of her set his pulses racing? The loss of Jessamy had 
driven him nearly distracted and he felt that to regain 
her he would willingly barter the round world itself, with 
his own soul thrown in as make-weight. 

In the turmoil of his emotions one fact stood clear. He 


MARSHLIGHT 


169 


must make Jessamy feel that he was to be trusted. That 
was the first point of contact which their new relations 
must establish. To attain this object he must not touch 
her again. 

His arms fell from about her and, rising abruptly, he 
went and stood by the mantelpiece, leaning against it 
and looking down at her from beneath the shadow of 
his hand. 

To his desirous eyes she looked distractingly pretty. 

“ Why did you do it?” he asked very low. “ You 
haven’t told me that yet.” 

“ Why did you -?” Jessamy broke out incoherently. 

“ Oh, you know, you must know what I overheard that 
night, what nearly drove me mad and sent me running 
out into the street, ready to do anything, to go anywhere 
away from you and Claire.” 

“ You little fool! You double-distilled little fool!” 
cried Grote, with a strange blend of tenderness and ex¬ 
asperation. “ What did you hear that sent you off your 
head like that?” 

“ You know well enough.” 

“ I don’t. Nothing that would account for such mad 
folly.” 

“Was it mad folly, Lucas?” Suddenly Jessamy 
began to tremble violently. “ Had I no right to be angry, 
to feel injured at hearing that you and Claire had been 
lovers, at finding that you had both planned to trick and 
deceive me, and meant to go on deceiving me? Was it 
only folly to run away when I found that the two people 
I trusted and loved most in the world had made a mock 
of me and lied to me?” 

“ Yes,” he repeated doggedly. “ Absolutely, crass 
folly.” 

Jessamy wrung her hands together helplessly. “ If you 
had only told me-” 

“ What was there to tell? Before God, Jess, I had 
almost forgotten that old boy and girl affair with Claire, 




170 


MARSH LIGHTS 


so little did it mean to me in comparison with you.” The 
ring of truth was in his words: for what is so dead as a 
dead passion? When one looks at its grey ashes it is 
impossible to believe in the leaping flame that once made 
of it a vivid, vital thing. 

“ If I had only known-” 

“ What difference would it have made?” 

“ All the difference in the world.” 

“ Now you’re talking nonsense,” Grote interrupted 
roughly. 

The sight of Jessamy, at once so near and so remote, 
lovelier to his eyes than ever despite her quenched 
brightness, wrought upon him almost to distraction. 
“ Why should I have bothered you with that old dead 
and gone affair? A man’s past belongs to himself alone. 
It doesn’t concern a girl what he has done before he 
meets her. All that matters to her is what happens 
after they have met. Do you see?” 

Jessamy shook her head. She felt oddly as if it 
were not really she who sat there upon the couch taking 
part in this incredible conversation. 

“ You must see,” said Grote. “ It’s time your eyes 
were opened to the realities of the world you live in. 
You’re up against hard facts, not the glamour of ro¬ 
mance. You and I are man and woman now, my girl.” 

To Jessamy he seemed to be tearing veils literally 
from her eyes: and yet she loved him more than ever 
in his masculine hardness and ruthlessness. 

“ When Claire suggested to me that our — affair — 
shouldn’t be spoiled by any knowledge of what had 
happened in the past, I agreed. I thought that she, being 
a woman, must know best. We were both mistaken, it 
seems. ... It also seems,” he went on after a pause, 
“ that we’ve all paid pretty heavily for that mistake.” 

“ Yes,” said Jessamy in a very low tone, after what 
seemed an interminable interval. 

“ This man you’ve married 


shot out Grote. 




MARSHLIGHT 


171 


“ y° u ? Do you care for him at all, or was 

he just an instrument to your hand, ready to be used?” 

This crudely apt description of Yule and his chivalry 
flicked Jessamy like a whip-lash. Though nothing had 
been farther from Grote’s intention the words sounded 
like an indictment of her own conduct. That was just 
what she had made of Yule: an instrument wherewith to 
punish Lucas Grote for his deception. And who had been 
punished the most? She herself, she imagined, for by it 
she had thrust herself into a trap from which there was 
no escape. It never occurred to her to pity the princi¬ 
pal victim of her own headlong folly, yet a gust of loyalty 
towards Yule swayed her suddenly. 

“I — I am quite happy,” she said, though the dead¬ 
ness of her voice belied the statement. 

“ Thanks,” returned Grote dryly. “ You’ve answered 
me.” 

“ But you haven’t answered me,” Jessamy broke out. 
“ You haven’t told me what there really was between 
Claire and you.” 

“ My God, what does it matter now? All that matters 
is that I love you with my whole heart and soul and 
you’re tied to another man for whom you don’t care 
a rap!” 

“ Hush, Lucas, you mustn’t say that. I — I do care 
for Yule. He — he has been goodness itself — most 

chivalrous-” her voice faltered queerly and died on 

the last old-fashioned word. 

“Chivalrous!” echoed Grote in a tone as strange as 
her own. 

What a word for her to use — unless it meant — 
Here a dazzling flood of light slit the curtain of dark¬ 
ness which had obscured Grote’s mental vision. He had 
always known, and been tenderly amused by Jessamy’s 
romantic conception of life. Could it be possible that 
she had met and married such another romantic, and 
that this marriage, bewildering in its suddenness, was a 



172 


MARSH LIGHTS 


marriage in name only? Here was a possibility to cling 
to — a straw for a lover drowning in the sea of love. 

Grote straightened his shoulders and his lips twitched 
to a smile. If his surmise were true all might yet be 

well between them. With Claire’s help- Suddenly 

he saw that he could not possibly do without Claire. He 
saw also that he must at once begin to pave the way 
for a reconciliation between the two women. 

“ Claire’s been awfully unhappy about you,” he began 
without preamble. 

“ Has she?” Jessamy leaned back against the couch 
and closed her eyes, listening to the departing footsteps 
of her newly-found peace. Her lips were dry, her hands 
burning. The news of Claire’s unhappiness had no 
power to move her. How could it when she was so un¬ 
happy herself?! . . . And Lucas still loved her. . . . 
The words clanged like bells in her ears, confusing her. 

“ She’s devoted to you, you know, Jessamy. She 
felt your flight terribly.” 

“ Did she?” 

“ She would give anything to get in touch with you 
again.” 

“ Would she?” 

“ Can’t you be reasonable, Jess?” His tone softened 
perceptibly on the little name that he alone used. “ You 
hurt her horribly by running away as you did, and then 
by sending her that odious letter.” 

“ She hurt me-” Jessamy’s voice choked. 

“ How? By having once — long ago, remember, 
Jess—cared for me? Was that such a crime?” 

Jessamy, blind to the fatuousness of such a question, 
was only aware of a lantern held up anew to her folly, 
displaying it in all its naked crudity. 

Yes: that had been Claire’s crime. 

Jessamy saw, now that it was too late, that she had 
been spurred to her mad action mainly by jealousy, by 
a pricking hatred of the thought that any woman (but 




MARSHLIGHT 


173 


especially Claire) had ever meant to her lover what she 
had come to mean, what she only should have meant, 
for ever and ever! 

A hot flush of shame suffused her. Why had she been 
so silly? Why had she forfeited all she had held dear to 
gratify this insane desire of punishment? What an utter, 
utter fool she had been! What had she done? How 
many lives had she spoiled by her folly? And whom had 
she really punished? 

Herself, most of all. Perhaps Yule, too, the innocent, 
the chivalrous. 

A sudden vision of him as he left her that afternoon — 
was it only about an hour ago? — flashed across her 
mind, but she banished it quickly. Lucas Grote at pres¬ 
ent filled her whole horizon. She wondered suddenly how 
much Claire had loved him, and swift on the heels of 
that wonder came an unexpected touch of comprehend¬ 
ing pity. Had it been hard for Claire to see him so de¬ 
voted to her? She had never shown any sign of it. She 
had been all sympathy with what she had called their 
idyll. But had she suffered, all the same? It was a 
thought which would not have occurred to Jessamy a 
month ago. 

She sighed, a deep breath that seemed to come from 
her very heart. 

“Poor Claire!” she murmured. 

Grote seized upon the welcome sign of softening. 

“Yes, poor Claire, indeed! She has been miserable. 
I know she longs to see you again, but she told your — 
Mr. Amber that she would not make the first move. 
Won’t you, Jess?” 

“I — don’t know.” How numb, how unresponsive 
she felt! 

“ Look here, Jess.” Suddenly, disarmingly his note 
changed from passion to friendliness. “ You’ve tangled 
up all our lives by your impulsiveness, but need that 
necessarily mean the end of everything? Why can’t we 


174 


MARSH LIGHTS 


make the best of a bad business and be friends again? 
There’s nothing against it that I can see. Now, is there? 
Can’t we let bygones be bygones? Go to Tudor Lodge 
to see Claire. Will you?” 

“ I’ll-think about it.” 

“ Think about it as much as you like so long as you 
go.” Skilfully he touched another string, speaking with 
an effect of frankness that reached the girl even through 
her numbness. “ Look here, Jess. I spoke in heat just 
now. You’ll forgive me if I felt sore and showed it. But 
we’re reasonable people, you and I. We’re going to patch 
up something out of the shreds of what has been, not 
chuck them away altogether, like fools.” 

“ Can we?” She looked up with a flicker of light in 
her eyes. 

“ Of course we can.” A warming confidence rang in 
his voice, strengthening as he saw its instant effect on 
Jessamy. “ This man you’ve married — Amber. He’s 
quite a decent chap, Claire says, in his own way.” 

“ Oh, yes, he’s good — good, Lucas.” 

“And I’m bad — bad? Is that what you meant to 
say?” Grote smiled down at the crouching figure on 
the couch, unable to keep away from the personal touch. 

“ No, no, of course not.” Jessamy’s fingers twisted. 

“ Well, he doesn’t want to cut you off from your old 
life, does he?” 

“ No,” admitted Jessamy reluctantly, thinking of 
Yule’s pleading and her own response, or rather lack of 
response to it. 

“ So Claire led me to believe. I — I’d like to meet 
him-” the lie almost stuck in his throat. 

“ Why not?” asked Jessamy, seized with a sudden 
inspiration. “He’s out at present at a children’s 
party-” 

“ A children’s party?” 

“ Yes. Doing conjuring tricks to amuse them. He’ll 
be in quite soon. Do stay to dinner and meet him.” 





MARSHLIGHT 


175 


The words seemed to utter themselves involuntarily, 
and for an instant Jessamy felt a wild longing to recall 
them. 

Grote’s acceptance, reassuring in its very banality, 
came too swiftly for any unsaying. 

“ Thanks very much. If it won’t put you out-” 

“Not at all. I’ll tell the maid to lay another place, 
if you’ll excuse me for a minute.” 

“ Certainly.” His manner was absolutely ordinary. 
She could not hear the loud chant of triumph that was 
rising in his heart. 

Jessamy rose and slipped out of the room, glad to be 
away from his disturbing presence for a moment. When 
she had told Mrs. Daylight of the unexpected visitor and 
received her assurance that there would be plenty for 
dinner, she paused for a moment in the hall to quell the 
strange breathlessness that was almost choking her, and 
to face this very difficult situation which she had so un¬ 
expectedly created for herself. Thoughts flocked in¬ 
coherently to her brain. Yule would not mind. . . . 
She did not believe that he had a spark of jealousy in his 
composition. . . . Suddenly she rather wished that he 
had. ... He would be more pleased than anything 
else that she had effected this sudden reconciliation. 
. . . Yule was a fool. . . . But she had been a 

fool too. . . . (Well, she was not going to be a fool 
any longer. She was going to pick up and mend the 
shards of her past, and remake a beautiful friendship with 
Lucas, with which her mad marriage need not interfere. 

She saw no flaws in her new scheme. Temptingly the 
marsh light flickered and danced in front of her, luring 
her on. 


XII 

Suddenly she remembered that Lucas, on the door¬ 
step, had asked for Miss Cotes. What had he meant? 
What had he wanted of Nanetty? 



176 


MARSH LIGHTS 


Spurred by curiosity Jessamy went quickly back into 
the drawing-room. 

She had left it in an alarmingly intimate dusk, with 
the leaping firelight for sudden illumination. She came 
back to find that it was transformed to a safer brilliance 
of golden-shaded light and drawn curtains. 

Lucas had taken a chair at the opposite side of the fire 
facing the couch. He did not dare to risk half-lights or 
contacts any more than did Yule Amber, and for an 
inversion of the same reason. 

He rose at her entrance and stood silent for a scarcely 
perceptible appraisal of her changed attitude. This was 
the old Jess, with a new Jess added: a Jess whose faintly- 
tinted cheeks he had once loved to compare to wild rose 
petals, whose eyes he had called pools of mystery until a 
star shone suddenly in their depths, but whose new poise, 
a little hard, perhaps, he had never seen before. 

“ I hope you’ll forgive my cheek in turning on the light 
and drawing your curtains,” he said quickly, to cover 
his pause. “ The room seemed so dark when you had 
gone-” 

“ That’s quite a pretty compliment,” said the new 
Jess, sinking down again in her favourite comer of the 
couch. “ But if you and I are to be friends, Lucas, we 
mustn’t have any of that sort of nonsense. Let us start 
clear.” 

“ Just as you like,” he answered rather heavily. “ I’m 
ready to follow your lead, Jess . . . for just as long 
as it suits my book,” he added to himself. 

“ Yule and Nanetty will be back quite soon, I 
imagine,” Jessamy continued, profoundly distrustful of 
any silence in which so much could be said and so little 
might. “ And, by the way, I am consumed with curiosity 
as to what you wanted with Nanetty?” 

“ Nanetty? Who’s Nanetty? I didn’t-” 

“ But you did. You asked for Miss Cotes. She’s 
Nanetty, my husband’s cousin, who lives with us.” 




MARSHLIGHT 


177 


“My God!” gasped Grote. “What a coincidence! 
Miss Cotes Amber’s cousin? Jove, that’s queer!” 

“ Why should it be queer?( . . . But I didn’t know 
that you knew each other.” 

“ We don’t. I came to see her with a message from 
my uncle.” 

“ What uncle?” 

“ Old Julius Brand, who runs the Leyden Gallery in 
Kensington. Surely I’ve spoken of him to you.” 

“ I don’t remember,” said Jessamy, wrinkling her fore¬ 
head. “ Oh, yes, I do. I have some recollection of your 
telling me once about an old uncle with whom you had 
quarrelled. You didn’t mention his name, so I thought 
it must be Grote like yours. Is that the one?” 

“ Yes. He’s the only uncle I have. But we’ve made 
up our quarrel since then. He’s a peppery old chap, but 
we’re never at loggerheads for very long.” 

Jessamy’s brain began to work, detaching itself with 
difficulty from her own concerns. 

“ Then your uncle and Nanetty’s old Brand are one 
and the same person?” 

“ Presumably.” 

“ She copies pictures for him.” 

“ Yes. She fakes old Dutch and Italian paintings so 
cleverly that you can scarcely tell them from the origi¬ 
nals, my uncle says.” 

Jessamy started. “No, Lucas. Not fakes!” 

Grote looked at her curiously. “ Rather. I thought 
you knew or I wouldn’t have given the show away. 
However, it’s all in the family, so it doesn’t matter. My 
uncle does a roaring trade — in a quiet way, of course 
— with his faked pictures. He has a large clientele 
among the simple New-Rich of many countries, who de¬ 
mand original oid masters for their growing picture- 
galleries. It’s his business to meet that demand, and your 
Miss Cotes is one of his sources of supply. Did she 
never tell you?” 


178 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ She told me that she copied pictures for this — for 
this Mr. Brand, but she is under the impression that they 
are sold as copies.” 

“ Is she?” said Grote dubiously. “ I doubt it. Of 
course by the time they are subjected to my uncle’s 
special process they really do look old. Perhaps she 
hasn’t seen them in that state.” 

“ I’m sure she hasn’t.” Jessamy could not but believe 
that Nanetty was innocent of the charge of consciously 
faking her pictures. She could not reconcile such an 
idea with what she knew of her character, its strength, 
its honesty. 

“ By the way, a specimen of her work hangs in the 
library at Tudor Lodge,” Grote went on. 

“Lucas, no! Not Dad’s old Dutch picture — the one 
of the red houses?” Back to Jessamy’s mind flashed the 
memory of her altercation with Nanetty over that very 
picture. 

Grote nodded, his lips twitching to a smile. 

“ I couldn’t help feeling amused when I saw it there 
I had admired the thing in my uncle’s gallery about a 
week before he sold it to your father, whom I didn’t even 
know then. 

“ Mr. Wyatt showed it to me himself with pride the 
first time I went to Tudor Lodge, but as I wasn’t on 
speaking terms with Uncle Julius then I didn’t disclose 
the relationship. Nor, on the other hand, did I give the 
show away.” 

“ That proves what I say, then, for Nanetty and I had 
an argument about the authenticity of that very picture 
She said that the original belonged to Lady Havant, and 
that Dad’s picture must be a copy. She liked it so much 
that she made a copy for herself besides those she made 
for Mr. Brand. She showed it to me and told me all about 
it. She wouldn’t have been so frank, surely-” 

“ You never can tell,” Grote thrust in. “Some of 
these artists have a queer warped pride-” 




MARSHLIGHT 


179 


“ There’s nothing queer or warped about Nanetty, 
except-” 

“ Except what?” 

“Well, she has a crooked shoulder, poor thing, 
but-” 

“ There you are, warped body, warped mind,” said 
Grote. 

The quick interchange of unfinished sentences came 
straight back out of the past, but with this difference: 
that whereas Jessamy had formerly been only too ready 
to agree with Lucas now she wanted just as eagerly to 
disagree with him. 

“ You’re quite wrong, Lucas,” she cried. “ That 
doesn’t follow at all. Nanetty has not a warped mind. 
She’s a fine woman. She’s been awfully good to me.” 

“ That’s right. Hit a man when he’s down,” said 
Grote with mock humility. “ You’re surely not going to 
force a quarrel on me now, Jessamy, just when I’ve found 
you again.” 

“No,” said Jessamy with a quick indrawn breath. 
Then she continued hastily in rather a quavering voice, 
for pauses must be avoided at all costs: “It seems so 

extraordinary that you and I should be sitting here-” 

she stopped abruptly, seeing the abyss to which her un¬ 
considered words had led her. 

“ Talking amicably, or rather on the verge of quarrel¬ 
ling about something that doesn’t matter a jot to either 
of us,” Grote broke in a little bitterly. 

“ We can’t talk about the things that do matter,” said 
Jessamy hastily, though in her heart she felt that this 
business of the faked pictures did matter unexpectedly to 
her. “ Don’t you see that, Lucas? Our only chance — 
our only chance is to be just ordinary. You do see that, 
don’t you?” 

“ Yes. But I wonder, Jess, if you have the faintest 
idea of how damnably hard it is to be 1 just ordinary ’ 
where you are concerned?” 



180 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ I — I- It’s hard for me too, Lucas. But if — 

if this thing is to work-” 

“ It shall work,” declared Grote hastily, seeing that 
the girl was groping towards some decision inimical to 
his ends. “ There’s no earthly reason why it shouldn’t. 
I’ll be content with crumbs. All I want is to live in your 
world, Jess, not to be shut again into outer darkness. 
It’s not much to ask, God knows, after all I once hoped 
for.” 

The humiliated drop in his voice went straight to 
Jessamy’s heart. 

“ No, it’s not much to ask,” she answered very low. 
“ All I can give you, with honesty, with decency, I will, 
Lucas.” 

“ You — dear!” Fire, instantly suppressed, flashed in 
Grote’s eyes. 

Yule’s parting phrase suddenly rang in Jessamy’s ears. 

“ Crumbs are no earthly use to me!” 

What a contrast to Lucas’s humble assertion! It did 
not occur to her that the positions of the two men were 
very different; that the man whom she had married 
might possibly have the right to expect more than the 
man from whom she had run away. 

As far as he had gone in that unlooked-for encounter 
Lucas Grote had certainly played his cards well. 

XIII 

The carved grandfather clock in the hall struck once 
with the sharp clear note peculiar to its age. 

“ Half-past seven,” said Jessamy unnecessarily. 
“ They ought to be here soon.” She was still afraid of 
an unfilled silence, so harked back to her earlier question. 
“ You’re very elusive, Lucas. Do you realize that you 
haven’t yet told me why you came here to see Nanetty?” 

“Haven’t I? Forgive me. I’m afraid I digressed. 
It was always easy for me to digress when you were 




MARSHLIGHT 181 

there, Jess.” Again he tried to pull her thoughts to the 
personal. 

“ Yes. We were always flying off at tangents, weren’t 
we?” She stifled a sigh. “ But I begin to suspect a 
mystery here.” She must keep to the point, she felt. 

“ There is no mystery. I went to see Uncle Julius 
this afternoon. I found that he had just picked up an 
old Dutch or Italian picture of which he was desirous to 
have two copies made by Miss Cotes as soon as possible. 
He was going to bring them here himself, but as I was 
anxious to please him after our recent quarrel I offered to 
do so — and there you are!” 

Jessamy tucked her feet up under her and leaned one 
elbow on the end of the couch, staring into the fire. 

“ What a strange chance it was that brought you to 
this house of all houses!” she murmured. 

“ It was not chance,” Grote answered with disconcert¬ 
ing directness. “ It was fate.” 

“ Are you a fatalist, then?” 

“ In some ways.” 

“ Do you believe that — all this — was pre-ordained 
from the beginning?” 

There was a pleading ring in Jessamy’s voice. She 
wanted the vague comfort of an instant assurance, but 
Grote did not answer immediately. Beneath the shelter 
of his hand his hungry eyes were devouring every new- 
old item of her beauty, the vital springing masses of her 
hair, the clear pallor of her skin, the depth and mystery 
of her eyes. What was there about this slim creature of 
fire and dew that set her apart from all other women? 
He knew half a dozen much more beautiful girls. Claire, 
in her heyday, indeed even still, was possibly better-look¬ 
ing. But there was an emanation of charm from Jessamy 
which no other woman of his acquaintance owned: a 
delicious elusiveness was hers, that tantalized even while 
it allured, a fragrance, a spell. . . . 

For a moment Grote felt as if it would be better for him 


182 


MARSH LIGHTS 


and for her if he walked straight out of that grey and 
gold room, out of the house and out of Jessamy’s life. 
The next instant he could have laughed aloud at such an 
idea. 

His feet were chained: his will was set upon re¬ 
gaining what had once been his and what no other 
man should ultimately keep from him. He raised his 
head and looked full at Jessamy with his old conquering 
smile. 

“ Sorry, Jess, for not answering sooner, but I was 
thinking. Pre-ordained from the beginning? Who can 
say? Perhaps so. I’m sure I don’t know. One thing I 
feel pretty certain of, though, and that is that the thread 
of your fate is irrevocably entwined with mine. The 
pattern of our lives is woven together. Of that I feel 
convinced.” 

“ You do?” A pulse fluttered in Jessamy’s throat. 
Her voice fluttered in unison. She looked towards the 
tall dominating figure by the fire with a wistful appeal. 
“ Then let’s try to make that part of the pattern as 
beautiful as possible. Shall we, Lucas?” 

“ My God!” exclaimed Grote in a choked voice: then 
recovering himself: “Yes, Jess. I’ll do my best, any¬ 
how.” 

“ I, too,” answered Jessamy very low. 

The click of a closing door, the sound of voices in the 
hall announced the return of Yule and Nanetty from the 
party. Jessamy jumped up from her comer, conscious of 
a mingled sense of excitement and relief. 

“ There are the others. I must go and tell them,” she 
said rather incoherently. 

She was gone, closing the door behind her. 

Yule was taking off his overcoat in the hall; Nanetty 
had already reached the foot of the stairs when Jessamy 
came quickly out of the drawing-room and faced them, 
her hand on the door-handle behind her, her cheeks 
faintly flushed, her eyes very big and bright. 


MARSHLIGHT 183 

“It really was rather jolly/’ Yule began. “I wish 
you had-” 

“ Yule, something very strange has happened.” 
Jessamy’s voice, a little high, a little strained, broke 
across the friendly greeting. “Yule, listen! . . 

Lucas Grote is here. I have asked him to stay to dinner.” 

“Lucas Grote!” amazement rang in Yule’s tone. 

“ Lucas Grote. What brought him here?” said 
Nanetty, turning sharply. 

“ The queerest chance!” Jessamy’s words tumbled over 
each other in her haste to explain. “ He really came to 
see you, Nanetty. He brought you a picture which his 
uncle, Julius Brand, wants you to copy. The old man was 
going to bring it himself, but Lucas volunteered — oh, 
isn’t it queer? Isn’t it extraordinary that he should have 
come here of all places in the world?” 

“ Lucas Grote old Brand’s nephew?” repeated Nanetty 
slowly, her shrewd eyes searching Jessamy’s incoherence 
for— she scarcely knew what. 

Jessamy knew well enough what she was looking for 
in Nanetty and her heart leaped in relief at the failure of 
her quest. There was no sign of confusion, no self- 
consciousness even, in Nanetty’s keen, inquiring glance. 
Jessamy could have laughed aloud in her relief as she 
turned to Yule, whose hand touched her wrist in a quick 
unwonted caress. 

“ My dear, I am so sorry. Wasn’t it very awkward for 
you, after-” 

“No, no, Yule. Only just at first. That — that’s all 
over and done with. The past is past and I’m going to 
forget it. I’m going to see Claire, and Lucas and I are 
going to be friends — if you don’t mind,” her lips added 
as an after-thought, the while her heart declared — 
“Whether you mind or not.” 

But Yule wouldn’t mind, she felt sure of that. He 
would be glad to hear of her reconcilation with her former 
lover. Yule was queer. He had no jealousy in his com- 




184 


MARSH LIGHTS 


position. He was full of odd quixotic impulses. 

Hadn’t he proved that by marrying her? He had 
wanted her to be friends with Claire — and possibly 
Lucas — all along. He was queer ... he was in¬ 
deed. . . . 

Jessamy’s jumbled thoughts were more or less reflected 
in Amber’s mind as he responded quickly. 

“ Of course I don’t mind, Jessamy. I am only too 
glad that you should be friends with — with any one out 
of your former life.” 

Nanetty threw him a quick glance which said, “More 
fool you!” as she turned to go up the stairs. “I’ll be 
down in a minute, Jessamy. Better ask Mr. Grote if 
he’d like to wash his hands.” 

Jessamy still barred the drawing-room door, facing 
Yule. 

“You’re sure you don’t mind?” she went on breath¬ 
lessly. “You don’t think it odd of me to have asked 
him to stay on? He said he wanted to meet you, so 
I-” 

“ I should have thought it much more odd if you 
hadn’t. We can afford to be sorry for poor Grote, you 
and I.” On a sudden inexplicable impulse Amber caught 
Jessamy to him and pressed a swift, hard kiss on her half¬ 
open lips. 

When he released her with an equally startling sudden¬ 
ness he was trembling as much as she was. The impulse 
had taken them both completely by surprise. White face 
stared at white face. 

“ Yule — Yule, you shouldn’t. You-” 

“ Why not? . . . You’re my wife.” He was 

breathless, as if he had been running. “ Well, perhaps 
I shouldn’t, after all. . . . Introduce me to our 

guest.” 

He opened the door and stepped aside to let her enter. 
She looked towards the fireplace. Grote had braced 
himself for the inevitable encounter. He stood in the 




MARSHLIGHT 185 

centre of the hearthrug, head erect, shoulders stiffly 
straightened. 

Jessamy glanced back. “ Yule, this is Lucas Grote. 
Lucas, my husband, Yule Amber.” 

She had not meant to be cruel in her faltering introduc¬ 
tion? yet Grote felt as if she had stabbed him to the heart 
with that one keen word, husband. 

He had himself well in hand as he went forward to 
meet the man who had supplanted him, the man who 
had stolen his woman from him. His sharpened scrutiny 
flickered to contempt as he saw Amber’s slight physique 
and thin, plain face. 

“ What could she have seen in such a weed? A tool? 

. . . A whip for my scourging? . . . Chivalry? 

What did she mean by that? ... By God, yes! She 
does look virginal still, unawakened. ... By God! 

“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Grote. It is friendly of 
you to take pot-luck with us like this. You are the first 
of Jessamy’s old friends to be welcomed to her new home,” 
Amber was saying as he held out his hand. 

In some strange way Yule really did welcome this man 
beneath his roof, so long as his presence neither hurt 
nor disturbed Jessamy. He was glad that she should be 
no longer cut adrift from her former life. He saw no 
menace for himself in such conjunction, nor for her. His 
outlook on the matter was curiously simple. “ On earth 
peace, goodwill towards men” might justly have summed 
it up. 

He loved Jessamy: he trusted her. It was only him¬ 
self whom he did not trust. That impulse of his just 
now . . . 

Grote touched the friendly hand, then dropped it as 
if it had stung him. 

His mind echoed Yule’s offending phrases —“ Mr. 
Grote . . . glad to meet you . . . pot-luck . . . 
Jessamy’s new home . . ! The bounder!-” while 



186 MARSH LIGHTS 

his lips forced themselves to the easy banalities of 
rejoinder. 

“ Awfully good of you to let me stay on uncere¬ 
moniously like this. Such an extraordinary piece of luck 
for me, taking Jessamy unawares. She was so surprised 
that she agreed to let bygones be bygones almost before 
she knew where she was. There’s no reason whatever 
why she shouldn’t, now, is there?” 

“ None whatever,” Yule agreed warmly. 

In his heart he could not help admiring this big man 
who took his defeat so bravely, who was so pluckily 
willing to put up with the second best now that the best 
was no longer for him. 

To lose Jessamy ... a Jessamy who had loved 
him, too. . . . What greater blow could a man 

receive? All the generous impulses of Yule’s nature 
welled up in response to such courage, such fortitude. 

“ Mrs. Wyatt will be delighted when she hears the good 
news. She has been fretting all these weeks,” Grote con¬ 
tinued. 

“I know,” said Yule sympathetically. 

“But we needn’t go into that now. The past is past. 
The present — of all the queer coincidences!” Grote 
broke off suddenly. 

All at once he had recovered poise, self-confidence, cer¬ 
tainty. He had nothing to fear from this fool. . . . 

Claire had been right there, the fellow was no knave. 
. . . All the easier to deal with, consequently. 

“ You said yourself that it wasn’t chance,” Jessamy 
thrust in. 

She curled herself up in her favourite corner of the 
couch once more, and motioned to Yule to sit beside her. 
His presence gave her a sudden feeling of safety. Grote 
went back to his former seat, so that he now faced both 
husband and wife. 

Husband and wife! 

Had any one told him but a few hours earlier that he 


MARSHLIGHT 


187 


would be under the roof of the man who had stolen Jes¬ 
samy from him, and not only that, but accepting his 
hospitality, he would not have believed it. He would 
have vowed such a state of things impossible. 

Yet here it was, an accomplished fact. The eternal 
triangle strangely twisted. Well, he would twist it 
farther and less singularly to his own uses. This fool 
should see. . . . 

“lama bit of a fatalist,” he answered, smiling easily 
at Jessamy. “ I don’t believe that such events as these 
are the happenings of blind chance.” 

“ How many of the abstractions of life are referred to 
as blind! Chance is blind, Justice is blind and most 
certainly Love is blind,” said a clear, rather disagreeable 
voice from the doorway. 

Jessamy looked up to see that Nanetty had entered 
unperceived. 

In her grey silk dress she looked old and colourless, 
except for the flame of her red hair against the white 
door behind her. At sight of her frowning scrutiny the 
faint suspicion of her candour which Grote had instilled 
into Jessamy began to gnaw uneasily at the girl once 
more. 

Nanetty looked worried, even a little furtive, Jessamy 
thought, as she hastened to make the necessary intro¬ 
duction. 

“ Nanetty, I don’t think you’ve met Mr. Grote. Lucas, 
Miss Cotes, for whom you brought that picture here this 
afternoon.” 

Nanetty bowed stiffly. Grote smiled as he returned 
her salutation. 

“ Your work is not unknown to me, Miss Cotes, 
although I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you 
until now.” 

“ Isn’t it?” said Nanetty indifferently. “ I came to 
tell you that dinner is ready, Jessamy. Emma is out, so 
Mrs. Daylight asked me to let you know.” 


188 


MARSH LIGHTS 


Jessamy rose, with a little flush of embarrassment at 
Nanetty’s tactlessness. 

She need not have been so gauche about their house¬ 
hold arrangements before Lucas. . . . 

“ We really must get a gong,” she exclaimed. 
“ We’ve got into very slack ways, I’m afraid.” 

“ Let me give you one as a belated wedding-present,” 
suggested Grote smoothly. “ May I have the pleasure of 
taking you in to dinner?” 

But Jessamy was not going to run the risk of further 
contact. 

“ Oh, we go in quite without ceremony here,” she said 
as lightly as she could. 


XIV 

The dinner-table passed muster, Jessamy thought at 
her first hasty glance. It would not have done for her to 
delay in order to see to it herself, so she had begged Mrs. 
Daylight to do her best, and that capable woman had 
certainly risen to the occasion. 

She had put the best white cloth upon the table. No 
lace mats upon a polished surface for her. She consid¬ 
ered them “ meanlike.” Henry Nimmo’s old silver candle¬ 
sticks bore the Chinese-yellow shades with black silhou¬ 
ettes which Nanetty’s clever fingers had fashioned, and 
the yellow jonquils had been bought and arranged only 
that morning. Of course it was not quite what Lucas 
was accustomed to, but for an impromptu it would do. 

Jessamy had no room in her thoughts for the pin¬ 
pricks of minor detail. The incredible had come to pass: 
the impossible was actually happening. 

She and Lucas — Lucas! — Yule and Nanetty were 
sitting around the same table, breaking mutual bread, 
and talking amicably about nothing at all. 

Stay, Nanetty was not talking much nor was she in 
the least amicable. . . . What was it to her whether 


MARSHLIGHT 


189 


Lucas came or went? Surely she did not take a low 
view of the situation? By her own friendship for Yule 
she ought to know what friendship between man and 
woman might mean. She was afraid for Yule, that was 
what it was, but why couldn’t she give her, Jessamy, 
credit for common decency? 

Jessamy, resentful of possible criticism and secure in 
the self-confidence of her utter inexperience, could not 
know that the first sight of her shining eyes and quick¬ 
ened face had filled Nanetty with a swift foreboding, not 
only for Yule’s happiness but for the girl’s own. Later, 
when Nanetty saw Grote for herself and marked his 
strong masculinity, his almost aggressive ease of man¬ 
ner and mastery of the situation, that first grim forebod¬ 
ing thickened like some great black rain-cloud to a 
distinct presage of evil. The feeling suffocated her. 
She could not eat. She only played with her food and 
drank long, unquenching draughts of water. 

“ We are wandering along the edge of a jungle,” she 
thought. “ And that big sleek beast is only awaiting his 
opportunity to spring upon us and tear our lives to 
pieces.” 

Never had she seen Jessamy so gay, so animated. It 
was a beauty, a gaiety that added to the weight on 
Nanetty’s heart. A faint rose flushed Jessamy’s cheeks, 
her great eyes shone as if there were a star in each. She 
played the hostess very prettify, Nanetty thought dully. 
She seemed to accept the whole strange situation as a 
matter of everyday. That was the best way to take it, 
of course, but- 

Yule seconded her ably in his quiet way. With him 
the instinct of hospitality was very strong. A man who 
broke his bread and ate his salt was as his brother, no 
matter how unwittingly one might have wronged the 
other. He had no doubt now but that Grote had forgiven 
him as freely as he would have forgiven Grote had the 
other man been the innocent aggressor. Grote (rather 



190 


MARSH LIGHTS 


amazingly, he had admitted to himself, at first) had 
taken his defeat as a man should. His very first sentence 
had shown that: his quick frank avowal of having sur¬ 
prised Jessamy into forgiveness of the past. It was a 
generous surrender of the key of the situation into Yule’s 
own hand, and he felt bound to show by his subsequent 
behaviour how much he appreciated such magnanimity. 

When at last they rose from the table Nanetty felt as 
if she could have screamed aloud. It was not often that 
her nerves played her such tricks, but they had gone 
through the process of being strung up to jangling point 
all day; beginning with Jessamy’s refusal to go to the 
party, and working up through Yule’s pathetic delight 
in the children next door, to this unexpected — and to 
her hideous — development of an impossible situation. 

“ We’ll have coffee and cigarettes in the drawing¬ 
room,” smiled Jessamy. “ There is no port, Lucas. You 
see we did not know you were coming.” 

“ I’ll fetch the coffee-tray,” said Yule. “ I never like 
the thought of Mrs. Daylight carrying it up those 
stairs.” 

He disappeared down the backstairs as the others went 
into the drawing-room, Nanetty with dragging feet and 
leaden heart. 

“ I haven’t delivered my uncle’s picture to you yet, 
Miss Cotes,” said Grote’s smooth voice in her ear. 

“ No,” said Nanetty tonelessly. 

“ Where did I put it?” He looked round the room. 

“ I must have left it in the hall when you-” he 

glanced significantly at Jessamy and did not finish his 
sentence. “ I’ll get it.” 

He was back before Jessamy had time to do more 
than collect the thoughts scattered by the memory of her 
loss of consciousness and subsequent awakening in his 
arms. 

It was a memory which Grote had deliberately in¬ 
tended to revive, and he was aware of his success at the 



MARSHLIGHT 


191 


first glimpse of her averted face, her trembling lips and 
her sudden avoidance of his eyes. 

A smile flickered for an instant and was gone under 
his small black moustache as he held out the parcel to 
Nanetty. 

“ It’s an early Dutch or an Italian primitive — I for¬ 
get which,” he said, beginning to undo the string. “ But 
my uncle says that you copy either equally well.” 

“ He ought to know.” 

“ He does,” answered Grote with a significant smile, 
which was not lost upon Jessamy for all her air of 
abstraction. 

She moved uncomfortably in her corner, then rose and 
fetched a baize-covered table, placing it in front of 
where she sat on the couch. 

What was it to her, after all, whether Nanetty delib¬ 
erately faked these pictures or not, she asked herself. 

Swift as a flash came the answer. It did matter. It 
mattered surprisingly. In these long months of contact 
and companionship she had come to a new conception of 
life, as it was lived by the two cousins: a new idea of 
the things that mattered and the things that did not 
matter. And the things that mattered were kindness 
(she balked, as the young are ever prone to do, at the 
great word, love), courage, honesty crystal-clear. 

That was Yule’s honesty: that, also, Nanetty’s. She 
did not realize how she had held on to the consciousness 
of that in the turmoil of her emotions, nor how much it 
had come to mean to her until now when, in the case of 
Nanetty, Lucas had apparently muddied its clarity. She 
might, if she chose, tell herself that she was absurd, 
hypersensitive; but Jessamy knew, in her inmost heart, 
that she would lose something irrevocably once she knew 
for certain that Nanetty deliberately faked pictures for 
a living. The doubt tormented her. She would have 
spoken out there and then and risked changing the 
stinging smart of suspicion for the balm or stab of cer- 


192 


MARSH LIGHTS 


tainty, but for the entrance of Yule with the coffee-tray. 
She was not going to risk hurting Yule now, when he had 
been so charming about Lucas. 

Yet, as Yule, with a smile, put down the tray in front 
of her with its glass coffee-machine and Chinese yellow 
coffee-cups patterned with twisting black dragons, 
another sickening doubt buzzed and pricked. 

Perhaps Yule knew. . . . Perhaps he had known 
all along. . . . Could he? . . . Was it pos¬ 

sible? . . . 

They both, apparently, hated anything mean, anything 
underhand, any pretence. This was a pretence: worse 
than a pretence, a cheat. 

No, it was not possible. Yule could not know. . . . 
Yet Jessamy was well aware that her mind would never 
be really at rest until she had questioned Nanetty and 
found out the truth one way or the other. 

She busied herself preparing the coffee while Yule 
offered Grote his cigarette-case. 

“ Many thanks,” said Grote, “ but I only smoke my 
own. Perhaps you will try one. They’re rather decent. 
A man I know in the city gets them specially for me 
from his own place in Virginia.” 

Yule took the proffered cigarette with a word of 
thanks. 

“ Won’t you have one, Miss Cotes?” 

“ No, thanks. Like you, I only smoke my own.” 

“Any special brand?” queried Grote with a bland air 
of deliberate friendliness. 

“Yes. Woodbines!” 

Grote smiled. “ There our tastes differ, then.” 

“ I had an idea that they would.” 

“ You, Jessamy? You used to like my Virginians long 
ago.” Grote turned and held out his cigarette-case. 

Jessamy’s heart gave a wild leap at sight of it, then 
thudded painfully. It was one which she herself had 
given him. He could not possibly have known that he 


MARSHLIGHT 


193 


was to meet her today, therefore he must like to use it. 
It looked used, a constant companion. She shook her 
head as she removed the flame from under the coffee-pot 
for the third time and blew it out. 

“ Not till after I’ve had my coffee,” she managed to 
say. “ You like yours black, I know.” 

“ Yes.” 

Grote stood by the table waiting while she poured the 
coffee out. 

How maddening, how infernally tantalizing this super¬ 
ficial intimacy was! If only he'could blot out the other 
superfluous occupants of the room! Ah, wait until he 
got her back at Tudor Lodge! Claire would be on his 
side, she would play up, he knew. 

Yet the very presence of these two, hostile as he knew 
it must be, was helping him unconsciously. It was 
accustoming Jessamy to him once more, familiarizing her 
with him anew, stabilizing his position with her, as it 
were, in a way which a solitude of two could not as yet 
accomplish. Patience was his role, and a matter-of-fact 
acceptance of these two — aliens — who had thrust them¬ 
selves so insolently into the orbit of Jessamy’s life. 

Nanetty, her coffee finished, bent to take up the still 
unopened picture. 

“ I’d better put this away,” she said rising. “ Please 
tell Mr. Brand that I’ll let him have a copy as soon as 
possible.” 

“ Good,” said Grote, with his significant smile. 

Nanetty, you’re not going,” exclaimed Yule, suspect¬ 
ing flight. “ I thought we might have a game of bridge. 
You play, of course, Grote?” 

With a smile he dropped the “ Mr.” of his earlier 
diffidence. 

“ Yes,” answered Grote. “ I play.” 

“ Let’s have a rubber, then, when we’ve finished our 
coffee. You’d like one, wouldn’t you, Jessamy?” 

“ Yes,” replied Jessamy, putting down her cup. 


194 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“Take away the tray, Yule, and we can play on this 
table.” 

It was Lucas who had taught her to play bridge. She 
knew that he, too, remembered as she caught his quick 
look before she could turn away her head. What a 
travesty it all was! 

Suddenly she felt a spurt of anger against him for not 
having refused to play . . . and yet, why should he 
have done so? Was not this matter-of-course acceptance 
of the inevitable part of the pattern which they were 
going to weave together, the quiet-toned, restful pattern 
of their future friendship? 

With a swift change of mood she deliberately sought 
the eyes which she had hitherto avoided (feeling rather 
than knowing that they seldom strayed far from her 
face), and smiled into them. It was a smile of under¬ 
standing, of confidence which set Grote’s pulses beating, 
and lighted him a little further along the path on which 
his feet were set. 

She turned away hastily from the sudden fire that 
leaped into his eyes as they met hers. 

Amber came back into the room with two packs of 
cards in his hand, which he laid down side by side on the 
baize-covered table. 

“ We mustn’t play with these,” he said whimsically, 
indicating the left-hand pack. 

“Why not?” asked Grote, taking it up idly and 
putting it down again. 

“ Because that’s the pack I’ve been doing my con¬ 
juring trick with for the kiddies next door this evening. 
Most of the cards are marked.” 

“ Then we must manage with one pack,” said Jessamy. 
“ Put the marked ones away, Yule.” 

Yule took up the left-hand pack and put it on the 
chimney-piece, then slipped the other cards out of their 
case and began to shuffle them. 

u We’ll cut for partners,” he said. 


MARSHLIGHT 


195 


They cut and Jessamy drew Grote, Yule Nanetty. 

“ We used to play a good combination, Jessamy,” said 
Grote with a lightness which concealed his mounting 
sense of triumph. “ Let us see if you’ve forgotten all I 
taught you.” 

“ I don’t forget easily,” answered Jessamy with what 
seemed to Yule a rather piteous effort at echoing her 
quondam lover’s tone. 

Suddenly he wished that he had not proposed this 
game, that he had just let their guest smoke another 
cigarette or two and then go. He had forgotten, in the 
apparent ease of this strange situation, what a strain it 
must all be for Jessamy, how trying the unexpected 
meeting and its subsequent prolongation must have been 
for her. He had blundered again, just when he wanted 
most to help her. He was an incurable blunderer. He 
felt the soft surprised touch of her lips still. . . . 

What mad impulse had prompted him to seize her like 
that, at such a moment? He did not know. Perhaps 
the unexpected knowledge of the other man’s pres¬ 
ence . . . some primitive instinct of possession. 

. . . His thoughts spun. 

They cut for deal and began to play. 

As the game progressed it became evident that either 
Jessamy had forgotten what Grote had taught her or else 
that the other two had an abnormal run of luck. 

No matter what hands they held Grote and Jessamy 
seemed to be unable to win, just as Yule and Nanetty 
seemed incapable of losing. Though the stakes for which 
they played were not large, at the end of the first rubber 
Grote and Jessamy had lost nearly a pound. 

Grote did not seem perturbed. On the contrary a cer¬ 
tain elation tinged his manner. 

“ If it weren’t so obviously untrue, I’d like to console 
myself with the old proverb, ‘ Lucky at cards unlucky in 

love,’ Amber, but on the face of it-” He glanced 

towards Jessamy and away again, and raised his eye- 


196 


MARSH LIGHTS 


brows with a smiling significance which made Nanetty, 
at least, want to strike him across the face. “ How¬ 
ever, I’m not going to be daunted. You must give us 
our revenge. Such luck can’t last for ever, eh, Jes¬ 
samy?” 

“ No, of course not,” Jessamy answered, two bright 
spots of excitement burning in her cheeks. “ Our luck 
must turn. I’m going to twist my chair round three 
times. I’ve heard that that helps to turn one’s luck.” 

The two men smiled as Jessamy got up and solemnly 
turned her chair round three times. Nanetty sat with 
her hands on the table, her grey eyes staring, her mouth 
queerly compressed. 

“Fetish-worshipper!” said Grote softly. 

Jessamy’s flush deepened as she remembered how he 
had once called her that when she had given him a mas¬ 
cot for his car. He was determined to let her forget noth¬ 
ing. Well, why should he, if they were going to be 
friends? 

“ We’ll see,” she answered. “ I’ll cut first for deal 
this time.” 

They cut again, and the deal fell to Yule. 

Jessamy’s propitiation of the God of Chance showed 
no sign of meeting with the approval of altered fortunes. 
She and her partner lost steadily, and continued to lose. 
At the end of the second rubber Nanetty pushed back 
her chair. 

“ I’m not going to play any more,” she said. “ I never 
won like this in my life before.” 

“ Nor I,” said Yule, uncomfortably. 

“No?” queried Grote, taking up the cards and letting 
them slip through his fingers. “ There’s no accounting 
for the vagaries of chance.” 

“ Blind chance,” echoed Nanetty. 

“ Blind chance,” Grote echoed idly. “ It’s getting 
late, Amber. Let me settle up and be off.” Suddenly 
his face altered. He laid down the cards on the table. 


MARSHLIGHT 


197 


“We haven’t been playing with the marked pack, by 
any chance, I suppose?” he said. 

“Oh, no.” 

“ Of course not.” 

“ What difference would that make?” 

The three exclamations came almost simultaneously 
from Jessamy, Yule and Nanetty. 

Then Yule’s hand shot out and gathered up the cards 
from the table. He ran his fingers lightly over their 
surfaces and his face changed. 

“ By Jove, we have!” he exclaimed. “ How on earth 
did that happen? I’d have sworn I put the marked pack 
on the chimney-piece. Jessamy-” 

But Jessamy had already reached up for the other 
pack and handed it to him. Yule took the cards out of 
their case and ran them through his fingers. His face 
showed annoyance and a slight bewilderment, but noth¬ 
ing more, to the three pairs of eyes that were watch¬ 
ing it. 

“ Well, that is an odd thing,” he said in a disturbed 

tone. “I’d have sworn- I’m awfully sorry, Grote, 

but as Nanetty said, of course it made no difference.” 

“ No, of course not,” Grote returned smoothly. “ You 
must have mistaken the packs.” 

“ Yes, but how?” Yule persisted. “ I’d have sworn 


“ One can’t account for these little mistakes. Look 
here, Amber, I really must settle up and be off. It’s 
going on for midnight.” Grote glanced at the clock. 
“ Let me see. How much exactly have I lost?” 

“ Nothing,” said Nanetty curtly. “ To me, anyhow.” 

“Oh, nonsense, Miss Cotes. It was by the merest 
mistake that we played with those marked cards. You 
really must-” 

“ Good God, man,” cried Yule with a suddenly 
whitened face. “ Surely you don’t think-” 

“ Of course not, Amber,” said Grote rising. “ As I 





198 


MARSH LIGHTS 


said it was the silly sort of mistake that might have 
happened to anybody-” 

“ No, not to anybody. Only to Yule Amber,” thrust 
in Nanetty, her hand on the back of her chair, her eyes 
fixed on Grote’s face. 

“ Why only to Yule?” cried Jessamy sharply, begin¬ 
ning to feel discomfited by the absurd episode. “ What 
do you mean?” 

“ Because Yule is the sort of fool to whom these things 
do happen,” said Nanetty with a queer little smile, half 
proud, half bitter. 

“ Really, Nanetty-” began Jessamy indignantly. 

Grote cut in. “ It seems to me that we are making a 
mountain out of a molehill. No one attributes Amber’s 
luck to playing with marked cards. It’s too absurd to 
think of. I insist on paying up.” 

“ Nonsense, Grote. You don’t imagine that I’d touch 
a penny of that money? I hate winning money in any 
case, especially in my own house. It was, as you say, just 
a stupid mistake, but I’m going to take sufficient 
advantage of it to cry quits over this game.” 

“ You must give me another opportunity, then?” said 
Grote, giving in with an apparent good grace. “ Your 
luck tonight may not always last. Perhaps it is I who 
will be in a position to cry quits next time.” 

“ I hope so,” returned Yule courteously. “ Will you 
have a whiskey and soda before you go?” 

To Nanetty’s over-strained nerves there seemed to be 
a deeper undercurrent beneath this exchange of civilities. 
She read a sinister meaning into Grote’s trivialities, even 
into his acceptance of Yule’s hospitable offer. 

“ I’ll get the glasses,” she said hastily. “ Mrs. Day¬ 
light has gone to bed.” 

“ And I’ll fetch the whiskey, if you’ll excuse me,” 
Yule added. 

Silence, weighted and sharp-edged, fell upon the two 
they left behind for more than half the brief period of 




MARSHLIGHT 


199 


their solitude. Then Grote, looking towards Jessamy 
with humorously raised brows said, in a tone of mild 
expostulation: 

“ Really, Jess! ... A woman who fakes pictures, 
and a man who plays bridge with marked cards-! ” 

“ They don’t cheat, either of them,” cried Jessamy, 
the flames of colour leaving her cheeks as suddenly as if 
they had been blown out. 

“ I never said they did, my dear. But you might 
have chosen-” 

“ I didn’t choose.” The words seemed forced from 
her. “ No. That’s not true. I did.” 

“ Blind chance again,” Grote murmured, shaking his 
head. 

“ I thought you said there was no such thing.” 

“ I don’t believe there is, either. It’s fate, Jess, fate. 
. . . And tomorrow you’ll ring up Claire.” 

“ I’m not on the telephone.” 

“ Go to see her, then. I’ll prepare her.” 

“ I don’t want to go.” 

“ Let her come here if you prefer it.” 

“ Oh, no, no.” All at once Jessamy felt that she 
could not face another intrusion of her old life into her 
new one. 

“ Silly little thing!” said Grote softly, as he had said 
it a hundred times before. 

Jessamy, remembering, and thrilling to his tenderness, 
knew that the old life had rushed back upon her like a 
tidal wave and was sweeping her before it: whither? 
She did not pause to question. She imagined that she 
rode on its crest and that she need go no farther than she 
would. 

She was as ignorant of the strength of a tidal wave 
as she was about most other great forces. 

“ Jess,” Grote went on, “ would you like me to call 
here for you tomorrow and take you to Tudor Lodge?” 

“ Yes. Oh, yes.” 




200 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ Then I’ll be round at half-past three. I’ll drop you 
there in time for tea.” 

“No don’t drop me. Come with me,” cried Jessamy 
on an impulse. “ It would make things easier if you 
were there.” 

“ Would it? Then, of course I’ll go with you. I’d 
do anything in the world that would make things easier 
for you, Jess. You know that, don’t you?” 

“ Yes,” murmured Jessamy, looking away as the 
others entered with the necessaries for the guest’s stirrup- 
cup. Then another impulse seized her. She must begin 
as she meant to go on. She would have no secrecies, no 
concealments from Yule. They had promised to be abso¬ 
lutely straight with one another. She wasn’t going to be 
the first to break that promise. “ Yule, Lucas is going 
to call for me tomorrow afternoon in his car to take me 
to Tudor Lodge,” she said quickly. 

“ Good,” said Yule. “ I’m very glad you’re going.” 

He turned a face so illumined with love and trust 
upon the girl that Nanetty could have cried aloud. 

“ Won’t you come too, Amber?” suggested Grote. 

Yule shook his head. “ Better for Jessamy to get the 
first interview over alone. I’ll go another day, if Mrs. 
Wyatt is kind enough to ask me. I’d like greatly to 
meet her again.” 

“ Oh, Yule, you are a fool!” cried Nanetty’s heart so 
loudly that she wondered that the rest did not hear. 

XV 

The episode of the marked cards rankled more in the 
women’s minds than in the man’s. 

It rankled in Jessamy’s because, though she knew that 
for Yule to cheat at cards was an utter impossibility, 
she felt sorry that such a stupid mistake should have 
been made in Lucas’s presence. It seemed to her vitally 
necessary for the reconstruction of their friendship that 


MARSHLIGHT 


201 


she should have as much justification for her mad action 
as possible, and the only justification upon which she 
could take her stand was the absolute integrity of those 
with whom she had linked her life. They had not any¬ 
thing else, of course, no money, no position, no power 
except the power of their honesty and goodness. Even of 
that power they would be bereft in Lucas’s eyes if he 
believed that Nanetty wilfully faked pictures for a living 
or that Yule deliberately played cards with a marked 
pack. Such a thought would tarnish the golden shield 
behind which she meant to shelter . . . from what? 
She did not ask herself. 

She was suddenly conscious of an intense weariness 
when Lucas had gone and Yule came back from locking 
the front door: an overwhelming desire to be alone, to 
escape from Nanetty’s watchful eyes and Yule’s yearning 
ones. Nevertheless, there was tribute to be paid first, 
well-earned, fairly-won tribute. 

Nanetty was moving towards the door as Yule entered. 
Jessamy took a step forward and faced them both. 

“I — I’m too tired to discuss things tonight, but I 
want to thank you — especially you, Yule, for your 
kindness and courtesy to my guest this evening.” 

“ I was neither kind nor courteous,” snapped Nanetty 
sitting down suddenly on the nearest chair. 

“No. I know you weren’t. I think I know why, 
too,” said Jessamy stiffening. “ But you were, Yule. 
You were really charming, and I am most grateful to 
you.” 

“ But, Jessamy dear, your guests are mine, your 
friends mine, too, I hope. I am more glad than I can 
say that you are going to be reconciled to your — Mrs. 
Wyatt again. You must always have any one you wish 
here. It’s your house — our house,” he corrected him¬ 
self with a little smile that wrung Nanetty’s heart. 
“ And you mustn’t be grateful. That’s just the one thing 
I can’t stand.” 


202 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ God knows you stand enough,” thought Nanetty, as 
Jessamy, with a deprecating, “ Oh, but I am. I can’t 
help it,” slipped out of the room, leaving the cousins 
together. 

“ Go after her, Yule,” said Nanetty gruffly. 

“I? . . . Why? She doesn’t want me.” 

“ Go after her and take her. She’s yours. It’s your 
right.” 

Yule’s thin face reddened painfully. “ Cave-man 
again?” he queried in a hard tone. “No, thanks, 
Nanetty.” 

“ Grote is a cave-man.” 

“ What do you mean?” 

“Just what I say. He hasn’t your scruples, either, 
you — you — anachronism! ” 

“ Thanks. I’m glad you credit me with decent 
instincts.” 

“Grote has primitive instincts. Yule — he changed 
those packs of cards deliberately.” 

Yule swung round to face her, his eyes incredulous. 
“Nanetty! . . . Did you see him?” 

“ No. But I didn’t need to. I know he did.” 

Yule laughed. “ My dear old thing, you’re letting 
your imagination run away with you. Why on earth 
should he do a thing like that?” 

“ To discredit you in Jessamy’s eyes.” 

“ Nanetty, nonsense. As if any one who knew me 
would believe — no decent person-” 

“ Grote isn’t a decent person.” 

“ Nanetty, you’re prejudiced. I think Grote has 
proved himself to be an awfully decent fellow. Look at 
the way he behaved tonight-” 

“ I’ve spent my evening looking,” thrust in Nanetty 
grimly. 

Yule went on as if she had not spoken. “No one but 
a really first-rate chap could have faced such a situation 
as he faced it. It might have been — in fact it was — 



MARSHLIGHT 


203 


deuced awkward for most of us, yet look at the extraor¬ 
dinarily natural way in which it all went off!” 

“I tell you I’ve been looking,” repeated Nanetty. 

“Well?” 

“Well?” She faced him defiantly. “Go after 
Jessamy, I tell you.” 

Yule shrugged his shoulders with a new impatience 
and turned away, reddening as he always did at the sug¬ 
gestion. 

“You’re being absurd, Nanetty, if not positively 
offensive. Grote is a decent chap, I tell you. I was a 
fool — you were quite right there, my dear — not to 
notice that we were playing with the wrong pack of 
cards, but I never once thought of such a thing. In any 
case, the marks are so slight that one would be unlikely 
to notice them unless one searched for them.” 

“Ah!” Nanetty pounced on the admission as cat on 
mouse. “ Grote must have deliberately looked for them, 
then!” 

“ Why should he do that if he knew they were there?” 

“ A little piece of acting.” 

“ My dear Nanetty!” 

“ My dear Yule!” Nanetty frowned, then gave a great 
sigh of exasperation. “ It is no use to pray that you 
may be given a little sense before you die!” 

“ I hope not,” answered Yule with a provoking cheer¬ 
fulness. “If by sense you mean the capacity for sus¬ 
pecting innocent people of vile motives and nosing out 
evil where it does not exist.” 

“ Then God help you, for I can’t,” cried Nanetty. 
“ I’m going to bed. Goodnight — bat! ” 

“ Goodnight — cave-woman!” he responded. 

But when Nanetty had gone Yule went over to the 
comer of the couch where Jessamy had sat and threw 
himself down there, pressing his cheek against the 
cushion where her head had lain. He lay there for a long 
time without stirring, his eyes fixed unseeingly on the 


204 


MARSH LIGHTS 


fire, which gradually died to a grey wood-ash in whose 
core a rosy ember still glowed. 

When at last he raised his head his face looked worn, 
his eyes sunken, and his thoughts were still on Jessamy. 

Why did Nanetty torment him with her impossible 
suggestions? Didn’t she know how he suffered? . . . 
Or was that why? . . . 

“ Could she possibly be right?” he wondered for one 
breathless moment: then he thrust the maddening temp¬ 
tation behind him with a quick revulsion of feeling. 
“ No, no, no! I’m not going to spoil the most beautiful 
thing in the world by snatching at it roughly. I’d only 
bruise it, rub its bloom off. . . . Nanetty doesn’t 

really understand. How could she, after all? . . . 

Poor old Nanetty!” 

He rose, stretched out his arms, and betook himself 
to a bed that was all too often sleepless. 

How could it be otherwise with that drawn sword 
between him and his heart’s desire. 

As for the card episode he never gave it another 
thought. He dropped it, with Nanetty’s ridiculous sus¬ 
picions, into the well of things forgotten. 

XVI 

Next morning Jessamy awoke to a confused sense that 
something had happened, something, like most happen¬ 
ings in daily life, at once pleasant and unpleasant. When 
realization followed, as it did swiftly, she burrowed down 
among her pillows, childishly seized by a sudden tempta¬ 
tion to shirk the immediate issues by staying in bed for 
her breakfast. 

The incredible occurrences of the previous evening 
flashed before her mind in vivid colours. 

“ Is it possible that this time yesterday everything was 
going on just as usual?” she thought, burrowing still 
further down in her bed with a little excited shiver. 


MARSHLIGHT 


205 


She was incapable at the moment of clear thinking. 
The fact of her reconciliation with Lucas overpowered all 
else. There was a poignant sweetness in being at peace 
with him once more, in having banished all bitterness 
from her thoughts of him. It even took some of the sting 
out of her apprehensions at the prospect of meeting 
Claire. 

“ I’d sooner face the dentist,” Jessamy decided. “ But 
it’s got to be done. I mustn’t shirk. I’m not going to 
run away from anything ever again. As for my friend¬ 
ship with Lucas-” she paused on the thought. “ I 

know that some people would think it a risky experi¬ 
ment-” Jessamy felt very old and worldly-wise as 

she admitted this to herself —“ But if Yule approves 
(and he seems to do so) it doesn’t matter two straws 
about any one else. It isn’t as if I were a child, as if I 
hadn’t been through the mill already.” 

She came to the surface again and flung her arms out¬ 
side the bedclothes, thinking with a thrill of the vista 
which this readjusted friendship with Grote opened be¬ 
fore her. 

Life was monotonously grey at Caroline Place. The 
coming of Lucas would brighten the texture of her days 
as it had done at Tudor Lodge. She saw no danger, no 
menace to her peace of mind in such a prospect: partly 
because of her youthful ignorance and partly because her 
brief love-affair had been a thing of glamour rather than 
passion. The deep places, the primal instincts in her 
nature were still untouched. It was not passion she 
desired, it was thrill, colour, movement: the glamour 
back again in a life suddenly stripped bare of illusion. 

How long the idyllic comradeship she pictured was 
going to content a man of Grote’s temperament she did 
not pause to think. She was content to take what sweets 
the moment proffered, careless of the possibility of their 
proving to be “ Dead Sea fruits, that tempt the eye, 
But turn to ashes on the lips.” 




206 


MARSH LIGHTS 


She lingered so long over her dreams and visions that 
she was late for the nine o’clock breakfast that was 
Yule’s compensation for years of enforced early hours. 

As she entered the rather dark little dining-room, with 
a smiling apology, it seemed to Yule that an aura of sun¬ 
light came with her. 

“ I’m on the track of an inspiration,” he cried gaily. 
“ The kiddies last night —‘ Some new love of lovely 
things.’ They really were lovely, Jessamy. I wish you 
had seen them.” 

He stopped rather abruptly, suddenly remembering 
their queer intangible difference on the subject, which 
had been momentarily wiped from his mind by his 
absorption in the children’s happy innocence and bright¬ 
eyed joy. 

Jessamy checked a desire to retort that the little 
Waldrons seemed very ordinary children to her. She did 
not want to pursue any cactus-prickly subjects on this 
first morning of her new life. 

“ I can’t screw up any regrets at not having gone to 

the party last evening. If I had-” she stopped as 

abruptly as Yule had done. 

But there were no cactus-prickles for Yule in the sub¬ 
ject of Jessamy’s visitor, except in so far as they related 
to Nanetty’s prejudices and suspicions. He returned in 
an absolutely natural tone: 

“ I forgot that. Of course you’d have missed Grote 
if you’d come. That would have been a pity.” 

“It would, indeed,” Jessamy echoed; while Nanetty, 
apparently absorbed in her newspaper, cried in her heart 
—“ Oh, Yule, you are a fool!”— for about the hundredth 
time. 

Yule pushed back his chair and rose. 

“ I’m frightfully keen to see if I can work out that 
idea. You’ll excuse me, won’t you?” 

His eyes were on Jessamy. Nanetty needed no apolo¬ 
gies. 



MARSHLIGHT 


207 


“ Of course. I’ve nearly finished, too. I’m not par¬ 
ticularly hungry this morning.” 

“ No?” queried Nanetty. 

It was the first word she had spoken so far, and 
though it bore a rather disagreeable tang to Jessamy’s 
ears, it left her quite unprepared for the bolt that fol¬ 
lowed. 

When Yule had left the room Nanetty put down the 
paper behind which she had kept herself carefully 
entrenched and faced Jessamy with hard, accusatory 
eyes. 

“ Jessamy, when are you going to give him a child of 
his own?” she asked. 

Jessamy’s face flamed as if Nanetty had slapped it. 
She was breathless, wordless, as she tried to cover herself 
with the tatters of her rent dignity. 

“ Really, Nanetty! ... I don’t think. . . . 

Surely that is. ... I don’t really see. . . . After 
all, it’s no business of yours.” 

“ Anything that concerns Yule is my business.” 

“ But that . . . that isn’t . . . That doesn’t 

. . . concern Yule.” 

“ Who else, may I ask?” 

“ Me.” 

“ It concerns you both, as I see it, and-” 

“And no one else,” returned Jessamy, plucking up 
spirit. “I — I won’t be asked indecent questions by 
you, Nanetty.” 

“ You can’t help being asked them, but of course you 
can refuse to answer them. I’m getting quite used to 
being called indecent. I don’t mind it in the least.” 

“ Perhaps you’d mind being called a cheat,” said Jes¬ 
samy, suddenly losing her temper. 

Nanetty started. “ Certainly I should. 1 No one living 
has the right to call me that.” 

“No one? Then it isn’t true that you deliberately 
fake old masters for Julius Brand?” It was out now! 



208 


MARSH LIGHTS 


Jessamy felt that the thing had to be faced and 
proved, once for all, false or true. Even in her absorp¬ 
tion in her own affairs, Nanetty’s answer still seemed to 
matter surprisingly. 

“ Fake old masters? What on earth do you mean?” 
Nanetty sprang up and gripped the back of her chair so 
hard that her knuckles gleamed white. 

“ Then you don’t know that old Brand subjects your 
copies to a special process of his own and sells them as 
originals?” cried Jessamy on a note of relief. 

Nanetty paled. She looked suddenly old and hard and 
grim. Her narrowed eyes shot sparks as she said in a 
low tone of concentrated anger: “ You were never nearer 
having your ears boxed in your life!” 

Jessamy felt an instant lightening of her spirits. 
Nanetty’s fire left her unscorched. Rather it shrivelled 
the dross of her thoughts, leaving only the pure gold of 
her faith in the things that mattered. She cried 
joyously: 

“ I felt that it couldn’t be true. I knew-” 

“ What put such an idea into your head?” 

“ Lucas said-” 

“ Ah, it was that cad, Grote! Not content with trying 
to discredit Yule in your eyes he must needs besmirch me 
too. How mean! How vile!” 

Nanetty leaned with both hands on the back of the 
chair as if she felt a sudden need of support. 

“ No, no, Nanetty, you mustn’t say that. Lucas 
didn’t- He thought I knew.” 

“ Knew what? That I was a cheat and a liar? Thank 
you.” 

“ No, no. About the pictures, I mean.” 

Jessamy looked pleadingly at the figure which seemed 
to have been turned to stone. As she looked, Nanetty’s 
rigidity broke, a flame of anger quivering through her 
once more. 

“ I must get to the bottom of this. Is what you say 





MARSHLIGHT 


209 


true of old Brand? It is really possible that he does 
this — this dirty discreditable thing?” 

“ I’m afraid it is,” Jessamy faltered. “ Don’t you 
remember what I once told you about the Dutch picture 
at Tudor Lodge?” 

“ My God, yes!” Nanetty jerked the chair round and 
sank heavily on it. “I remember it well, and how hot 
we both grew over it! ... Then this old devil has 
made a tool of me, has prostituted my one poor little 
talent — oh, my God!” She gave a choked cry and, 
leaning her arm along the back of the chair, hid her face 
against it. 

Jessamy ran to her. “ Dear old Nanetty! My dear, 
I never really believed it. I knew you wouldn’t — 
couldn’t-” 

Nanetty raised a white tearless face. 

“ Thanks,” she said dully. “ If you knew me at all. 
. . . Any one who did know me. ... Of course, 
that man Grote-” 

Jessamy stiffened. “ Lucas Grote meant no harm.” 

“ Didn’t he? I don’t trust him. You didn’t trust him, 
either, that first day you came to us. Oh, Jessamy, do 
be careful. Don’t play with fire. It’s madness for you 
to have anything to do with that man after what has 
been between you.” Nanetty forgot her own hurt for the 
moment in contemplation of the girl’s danger, and with 
it, the menace to Yule. 

“ There is only friendship between us now.” 

“ Don’t talk rubbish,” cried Nanetty rudely. “ That’s 
the stuff he has been trying to fool you with, I suppose. 
A man of his type has no use for friendship with a girl 
of yours. Don’t believe it for an instant.” 

“ I think you must let me judge of that for myself,” 
answered Jessamy stiffly, her sympathy merging into 
annoyance. 

“ He’s begun already, I see,” said Nanetty bitterly. 

“ Begun what?” 




210 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ Alienating you from us. Sowing seeds of distrust 
and suspicion between you and us. He doesn’t know 
us, of course. It might have been as possible that Yule 
should cheat at cards as that I should cheat with my 
pictures-” 

“ He never thought Yule cheated at cards,” cried 
Jessamy, pricked at the way in which Nanetty ranged 
herself with Yule on the one side, leaving her very 
definitely on the other. 

“ Perhaps not. . . . But I’m convinced that he 

changed the packs so that you might think-” 

“ Nanetty, how dare you? . . . Did you see him 
do it?” 

“ No, but-” 

“ Then you’ve no right whatsoever to make such an 
accusation. You’re very ready to resent any suspicion of 
your own motives. Why be so quick to accuse another 
person just because you don’t happen to like him?” 
Jessamy’s great dark eyes were as fiery as Nanetty’s 
own had been. 

Nanetty met and returned her gaze defiantly for a 
moment. Then she flung out her thin hands with a little 
hopeless gesture and gave in, suddenly broken. 

“ I’m sorry, Jessamy. It was instinct rather than 
reason which prompted me. Perhaps I’m wrong. I hope 
so. Instinct may play us false sometimes in revenge for 
the way in which we so constantly ignore our intuitions.” 
She rose, pushing the chair aside. “ All the same, I beg 
of you to be careful, Jessamy. There’s danger, terrible 
danger in this playing at Platonics.” 

Jessamy thought, with a half contemptuous pity: 
“ Poor old Nanetty, what does she know about it?” 
Aloud she said: “ You needn’t be uneasy, Nanetty. I’m 
not a child.” 

“But that’s just what you are!” groaned Nanetty. 
“ A child in your ignorance of the very ABC of mascu¬ 
line nature.” 





MARSHLIGHT 


211 


“ That’s nonsense,” said Jessamy, reddening. “ Even 
Yule-” 

“ You can’t judge other men by Yule. He’s an 
anachronism, born out of his era. Besides-” 

“Well, what are you going to do about this picture 
business?” Jessamy hastily changed the subject. 

“ Do? I hardly know. Give that old devil a piece 
of my mind first, and then-” 

“ And then?” 

“ See what turns up. The bottom seems to have 
dropped out of my world, somehow.” 

“ In what way?” 

“ Don’t you know that I’ve a contract with old Brand 
to sell him all my work for the next two years? That 
blocks me absolutely, for if I don’t work for him I can’t 
work for any one else until that time is up. I’ve no 
money of my own. I’m altogether dependent on what I 
earn.” 

“Oh, you poor thing!” cried Jessamy, sympathetic 
again. “ But if old Brand promised to sell your pictures 
only as copies-” 

Nanetty’s laugh jangled through the quiet room. “ Do 
you really think I’d work for that old cheat again? I’d 
rather starve first. Besides I can always go out as a 
charwoman. The demand still exceeds the supply, I 
believe.” 

“ Nanetty! . . . But Yule and I have plenty-” 

“ You needn’t rub it in,” said N&netty bitterly, as she 
went to the door. 

In spite of herself she turned back on the threshold to 
see Jessamy standing still like a child who has been hurt, 
her head bent, her lips quivering. 

“ There, there, I’m a cranky old thing,” she cried half 
crossly, half deprecatingly. “ Don’t mind me, Jessamy. 
I’m sore still. 

“ Any kindness just now is like salt on a wound. 
I feel spiritually soiled, too. I think I’ll go and cleanse 






212 


MARSH LIGHTS 


my soul by having it out with the Brand that certainly 
deserves burning.” 

With the pitiful attempt at a jest she was gone, fleeing 
to her lair with the instinct of the wounded animal; leav¬ 
ing Jessamy to a state of mental perturbation which was 
lighted by one clear, unalterable ray: her restored faith 
in the honesty of this woman whom she had trusted from 
the first. 


XVII 

Jessamy tapped at Yule’s door and entered. The bare 
untidy slip of a room was full of sunshine. Outside, 
across the road the river sparkled. Sparrows chattered 
in the plane-trees, immensely absorbed in their own 
affairs as usual. 

“ Sorry for disturbing you,” she said, as Yule looked 
up from his table questioningly. “ How is the inspira¬ 
tion going?” 

“ Rottenly,” answered Yule, covering up his block and 
the rough sketches that were scattered about the table. 
“ Sorry for not showing you what I’ve done, but I 
simply loathe letting any one see my first attempts.” 

“ Even me?” 

“ Even you.” He smiled as he said it, and there in 
the strong sunlight Jessamy noticed for the first time how 
thin his face was and how deeply the patient lines about 
his mouth were scored. 

She hesitated before she spoke again, not knowing 
exactly how to frame what she had come to say. 

“ Look here, Yule,” she began at last, drawing lines 
on the table with her fore-finger. “ It’s all right about 
my going to Tudor Lodge today with Lucas, isn’t it?” 

“ What do you mean, dear? I thought that was all 
settled.” 

“So it was, but — but Nanetty unsettled me again, 
rather.” 


MARSHLIGHT 


213 


Yule winced, and his brows drew together quickly. 

“ Don’t mind Nanetty. She’s a dear old thing, but 
full of prejudices.” 

Jessamy’s face cleared. “ Then you think it all right 
that Lucas and I can be friends?” 

Yule hesitated, trying to see the situation from all 
points of view. He wanted to prove to her yet again how 
he loved and trusted her: he wanted to help her, not 
hinder her: above all he wanted her to be happy. 

“ How do you feel yourself about it, Jessamy? Do 
you think it’s safe” he asked quietly. 

Jessamy’s head went up. “ Of course it’s safe. I’m 
not likely to forget that I’m your wife. I thought you 
trusted me, Yule?” 

“ Of course I trust you, my dear.” 

“ Lucas quite understands.” 

“ Then that’s that. You know I always wanted you 
to get in touch with your old life again.” 

“If you’re satisfied, Yule, no one else has any right to 
interfere.” 

“ Nanetty doesn’t mean to interfere. It’s only be¬ 
cause -” 

“ Oh, I know she does it from the best of motives,” 
interrupted Jessamy rebelliously. “ But I’m just a little 
tired of being treated and looked upon as a child, and I 
wanted to get this quite clear between you and me. 
. . . You’ll come to Tudor Lodge when, or if Claire 
asks you, won’t you?” 

“ With pleasure, I should like to meet that charming 
lady again.” 

Jessamy sighed. “ Claire is clever. I wish the meeting 
were over. I dread it. I don’t know what to say to 
her.” 

“Just say you’re sorry for having hurt her,” Yule sug¬ 
gested after a moment. “ You know it wasn’t a kind 
thing to run away as you did.” 

“ I suppose it wasn’t, but-” 




214 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ Have you ever regretted it?” asked Yule, rather low. 
“ Coming to me, I mean?” 

Jessamy pondered. “No. I don’t think I really have. 
I still have a sense of peace, of security in our mar¬ 
riage— our queer made marriage that the wiseacres 
mocked at, but which has turned out so surprisingly 
well!” 

Her spirits rose at Yule’s reasonableness. ... He 
really was rather a dear, in spite of being the anachron¬ 
ism Nanetty was so fond of calling him. He was sur¬ 
prisingly modern in his attitude towards the present 
situation, though . . . Jessamy bent and dropped a 

light kiss on top of his head. 

“You’re rather a nice person, you know, Yule,” she 
said as she slipped away. 

But for quite a long time after she had gone Yule did 
not feel at all a nice person. His pulses raced and his 
temples throbbed at her careless caress until he felt as if 
his head would burst. He pushed away his sketches with 
a groan. 

“ Yet, after all, if I didn’t let her see that I trusted 
her I should give Grote all the glamour of the forbidden. 
It isn’t worth while risking that,” he ended a long mental 
argument. “ She must trust me. She must know that I 
trust her. That’s essential. The point is, can I trust 
Grote to play the game? If he doesn’t . . .” Yule 
got up suddenly and went to the window, his hands 
thrust deep in his pockets. “ Is Nanetty right and am I 
wrong?” he wondered, with a sudden new uneasiness. 
“ Would I really come into my own if I played the cave¬ 
man and clubbed Jessamy into submission? . . . 

Grote probably would. He’s that type. I’m not. No, 
I must be true to myself. I must live my life as I see 
it, not as any one else sees it. I can’t grab at the most 
beautiful thing in the world and risk finding it all spoiled 
and broken in my hands. Jessamy trusts me. I’m not 
going to fail her. After all, that’s what matters most, 


MARSHLIGHT 


215 


that I shouldn’t fail her. Nanetty ...” A smile 
crept about the corners of his mouth. . . . “ Dear 

old thing, what does she know of love? She theorizes 
largely in her blunt way, but what does she really 
know?” 














PART III 


DAYLIGHT 

















PART III 


DAYLIGHT 

I 

Throughout the dragging hours Jessamy visualized 
a dozen different versions of her meeting with Claire, all 
equally trying, equally difficult. 

As half-past three approached she grew more and more 
nervous. The simile of the dentist’s chair was the only 
one that at all adequately fitted the case, for she was 
filled with all the ghastly apprehensions, the deadly in¬ 
certitudes that beset the human mind at such a moment. 

“If only it were over!” she sighed one instant: and 
the next, “If only it need never come!” 

Her meeting with Lucas — the ravening wolf of 
Nanetty’s imagination! —took on an altered aspect; an 
aspect which seemed to cheapen the gold of the earlier 
glamour to a mere pinchbeck. 

“ Why will people complicate things so?” she thought 
with a sudden exasperation. “ Why don’t we take life 
simply, as I’m sure it’s meant to be taken?” The 
thought struck her: “ Yule takes life simply enough. He 
sees things clearly. He really is rather a dear.” 

Then she forgot all else at the sound of a motor- 
engine, purring on its relentless way towards Caroline 
Place. An instant later Grote had brought his fawn- 
coloured two-seater to a standstill outside the door of 
No. 3. 

Jessamy waved to him from the drawing-room window 
and ran out on to the steps before he had time to ring. 

“ Hallo! What a punctual little woman!” said Grote 
cheerily, looking at her in the way that had always made 
her feel subtly pleased with herself. 

219 


220 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ Wasn’t I always punctual?” countered Jessamy, 
smiling, with a sudden revulsion of relief. 

Gone were her apprehensions. The known, the familiar 
lapped her about comfortably at sight of both car and 
man. There was nothing but a warm friendliness in 
Lucas’s tone. What a fool she had been to worry herself 
so unnecessarily! Perhaps the dreaded meeting with 
Claire would not be so trying after all. Anticipations 
were generally worse than the reality. Grote’s next 
words were reassuring. 

“ I rang Claire up this morning. She’s longing to see 
you.” 

“ Good,” said Jessamy, striving for self-confidence. 

He helped her into the car, tucking the rug round her 
with all his old solicitude. Insensibly her spirits rose. It 
really was delightful to be in a private car again, and 
Grote’s was the last word in comfort. She nestled down 
on the luxuriously-sprung seat, patting the soft rug with 
a childish pleasure. 

Amber, roused by the sound of the car, watched them 
from his window. 

“ She must feel free, absolutely free,” he thought. 
“ She must taste her old life again, and then . . . and 
then. . . .” 

The car started, sweeping her swiftly out of his range 
of vision, but not out of his thoughts. 

Grote and Jessamy spoke but little on the way to 
Tudor Lodge. Brief snatches of dialogue were all that 
the exigencies of steering through the traffic permitted. 

“ It’s good to have you in the car again, Jess.” 

“ It’s good to be here,” Jessamy answered. 

After a while Grote said: 

“ You’re thinner than you were, child.” 

“Am I?” 

“ Yes — but lovelier than ever.” 

“ Oh, nonsense, Lucas ” 

“ Sober sense, Jess.” 


DAYLIGHT 


221 


“ Don’t you think compliments ought to be taboo?” 

“No. . . . Why?” 

“ Oh, I don’t know.” 

“ Nor I. Besides, that wasn’t a compliment. It was 
the truth. You’re not going to run away from the truth 
again, are you?” 

“ No. I’m never going to run away from anything 
again,” Jessamy declared, drawing a long breath. “ But 
let’s forget all that.” 

“ How can we?” 

“No. . . . I suppose we can’t.” 

“ Not while you wear Amber’s ring.” 

Jessamy suddenly clasped her left hand with the right. 
She had almost forgotten Yule, so completely had the 
past laid its spell upon her. In all her imaginings she 
had left out one important factor: the power of old 
associations; a power which had gripped her from the 
moment she entered Grote’s car. Its hold was still upon 
her as they sped through the familiar roads of Hamp¬ 
stead and turned in at the gates of Tudor Lodge. 

The sight of the trim garden, the low cream-coloured 
house, brought a mist to Jessamy’s eyes, so poignant was 
this sudden return to the past, so unexpected its effect. 
She could scarcely respond to the parlourmaid’s smiling 
welcome: but Grote filled the hiatus. 

“ You mustn’t call her Miss Jessamy any longer. She’s 
Mrs. Amber now.” 

“ I forgot, ma’am. Mrs. Wyatt is in the drawing¬ 
room. She asked me to say would you kindly wait in the 
library, sir.” 

Jessamy turned quickly to Grote with a look of 
appeal. 

“ No, no, Lucas, you’ve got to come with me. You 
promised.” 

“ All right. Of course I’ll come.” Grote’s smile held 
a hint of triumph. “ Claire will understand.” 

Jessamy’s heart thudded as she followed the maid 


222 


MARSH LIGHTS 


across the familiar black-and-white tiled hall. Grote 
gave her fingers a quick little squeeze as she passed into 
the warm-scented drawing-room, seeing nothing but 
Claire’s tall figure waiting by the fire. As they entered 
she turned with outstretched arms. 

Jessamy had no idea that Claire had modelled her 
attitude (with a somewhat ironic appreciation of its im¬ 
plications) upon Lord Leighton’s well-known picture of 
Demeter awaiting the return of Persephone from the 
Under World. She was only aware of the half tender, 
half reproachful smile, the wistful uncertainty of the lips 
that moved to a low-toned: 

“ Jessamy — dearest! ” 

“ Claire, oh, Claire!” 

With a little cry Jessamy ran forward. In a moment 
she was sobbing her heart out on Claire’s shoulder, 
Claire’s white hand on her abased head. 

“ Go away, Lucas. We don’t want you/’ said Mrs. 
Wyatt softly. 

Her eyes met Grote’s and said: “ You may safely leave 
her to me.” 

His responded: “ You’re a wonderful woman.” 

He went quietly away. The two women were scarcely 
conscious of the gently closing door. Claire bent her lips 
to Jessamy’s ear. 

“ My child, why did you do such a thing?” 

It was her one reproach. 

“ I don’t know. I was mad,” sobbed Jessamy, forget¬ 
ful of her own hurts, her own wounded dignity, and feel¬ 
ing only like a lost child who has suddenly been found 
and taken home again. “I’m sorry. . . . I’m sorry, 
Claire. Can you forgive me?” 

“ Dear child. I forgave you the moment I knew that 
you were safe.” 

“Oh, Claire! Claire!” 

Gradually the storm spent itself. Jessamy’s sobs 
stilled at last to quickly caught breaths. Claire dried the 


DAYLIGHT 


223 


reddened lids with her own fine handkerchief. Its well- 
remembered perfume drew the past still closer about the 
girl. Caroline Place and Yule Amber seemed shut out, 
far away, almost non-existent. It was Claire herself who 
brought them back. 

“ Sit here on the couch with your back to the light and 
tell me anything you care to,” she said, piling the soft 
cushions behind Jessamy at the most comfortable angle. 
“ You know that I’m the last person in the world to kick 
against the inevitable, so let us take everything that has 
happened for granted and start afresh. Your hus¬ 
band -” she saw, but ignored Jessamy’s slight start at 

the word —“Mr. Amber can’t have told you how much 
I liked him, for I don’t believe he knew it himself. He 
really is the quaintest, most ingenuous person, Jessamy.” 

“ Yes, isn’t he?” echoed Jessamy, relieved and pleased 
at Claire’s praise of Yule. 

Mrs. Wyatt, with unerring intuition had said the one 
thing best calculated to remove awkwardness and put 
their new relations upon an easy footing. Her tacit 
acceptance of Amber, her assumption of future mutual 
friendliness, reassured the girl as nothing else would 
have done. 

“ How could I have misunderstood Claire so dread¬ 
fully?” Jessamy thought, with the pendulum-swing of 
youth’s remorse. “ She, too, takes things simply, as 
people ought always to take them, but don’t.” Aloud 
she continued: “ Yule Amber is the best man I’ve ever 
come across, I think. I can’t tell you how good he has 
been to me, how chivalrous.” 

“ Chivalrous?” Mrs. Wyatt was caught, as Grote had 
been, by the word. “ How was he chivalrous to you, 
Jessamy? Forgive me for asking, dear, but you must 
remember that I know little or nothing about your 
marriage except the bare fact. I didn’t even know that 
you knew Mr. Amber-” 

“ But I didn’t,” Jessamy blurted out. “ Oh, Claire, 




224 


MARSH LIGHTS 


I’d better tell you everything and let us start afresh, as 
you said.” 

“Tell me just what you wish, dear child.” 

Had Claire probed for information it was possible that 
Jessamy — being very human — might have felt im¬ 
pelled to withhold it. Her apparent lack of curiosity 
caused Jessamy’s confidence to rush forth in a flood. 

When the girl had ended her confession, with flaming 
cheeks and drooped lids, Claire looked at her very 
gravely, shocked at the dangers she had risked. 

“Jessamy, my dear, it was surely your guardian 
angel who led Yule Amber to you that night.” 

“ Oh, Claire, do you believe in guardian angels?” 

“ I believe in prowling human beasts,” Mrs. Wyatt 
returned. “ You mad, foolish child, you don’t know what 
you have escaped. I shudder to think of it. But for 
that man you don’t know into what abyss you might 
have fallen . . . where you might be now. I had 
only pictured some clandestine acquaintance. I never 
dreamed. . . . Good God, Yule Amber has placed us 
under a life-long obligation!” 

Jessamy looked at her from beneath her wet lashes, 
only half-understanding. 

“ Yule?” she said, in a tone of surprise. 

“Yes, Yule. ... I didn’t know that there were 
such men.” 

“ His cousin Nanetty calls him an anachronism.” 

“ He must be,” returned Claire dryly. 

She got up and walked to the window, a striking figure 
in the black gown that showed off her silvery fairness so 
effectively. 

Indeed Jessamy’s story, convincing in its very art¬ 
lessness, had really shaken her. In her younger days she 
had known something of the seamy side of life, enough 
to make her realize the risks that Jessamy had run in 
her mad flight. Jessamy leaned back among the cushions 
wondering what Claire would say next. She had a sud- 


DAYLIGHT 


225 


den childish longing to get scenes and explanations over 
and be friends again, as she put it to herself. 

Her eyes wandered round the loved familiar room, 
luxurious in every detail, warm and scented with the 
fragrance of white lilac today. It was a delightful room, 
certainly . . . Jessamy stirred a little uneasily. 

. . . Was it possible that it felt the least bit too warm, 
too luxurious, too strongly scented, after the cool aus¬ 
terities of Caroline Place? 

Claire swung round again from the window. 

.“Then you only made a tool of Yule Amber!” she 
said, a faint ring of accusation in her tone. 

“I — suppose so.” 

“ What made him willing to be used by you?” 

“He — he said he loved me.” 

“He loved you!” Claire echoed. “Yes, he said that 
to me, too. What witchery have you, child, to enable 
you to capture men’s hearts as you do? . . . Lucas 
also loves you, you know. He loves you so much that he 
is willing to accept whatever fragments of friendship 
you can give him. You know that, don’t you?” 

Claire sat down on the couch again and took Jessamy’s 
hand in hers. 

“ Yes. I know that. He told me so yesterday. 
Everything is straight between us now. We are going 
to — to start again.” 

Claire sighed. “ You are a lucky girl. One so seldom 
has the chance of making a fresh start. . . . But 
about this marriage of yours-?” 

She paused significantly. 

Jessamy’s cheeks flamed, but she was determined to 
shirk no truth again, however unpleasant. 

“ I think you ought to know, Claire, that' it isn’t — it 
isn’t — an ordinary marriage. Yule and I are only — 
are only — friends.” 

“ Only friends? . . . And he says he loves 

you.” 



226 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ That’s why,” answered Jessamy confusedly. “ He 
doesn’t want — he said he wouldn’t ask-” 

“ He must indeed be an anachronism,” returned Mrs. 
Wyatt dryly. “ Well, we needn’t pursue this delicate 
subject any further. If yours is one of these semi¬ 
detached marriages it will enable me to see all the more 
of you. You must get in touch with your old friends 
again. We’ll do our best to give you a good time. You 
must bring Mr. Amber to see me. I’ll give some little 
dinners, arrange some theatre-parties. What have you 
seen that’s on now?” 

“ I haven’t been to the theatre since I left home,” 
Jessamy admitted. 

“ So much the better,” said Claire cheerfully. “ There 
are numbers of plays you must see. There’s an excellent 
one by a new man at the Everyman. You and Mr. 
Amber must dine here first. Perhaps the cousin would 
come too. Would she?” 

The thought of Nanetty at Tudor Lodge twisted 
Jessamy’s lips to a rather wry smile. 

“ I’m sure she wouldn’t,” she answered, to Mrs. 
Wyatt’s surprise. “ You needn’t be conventional with 
them, Claire. They won’t expect it. They wouldn’t 
know whether what you did was the right thing or the 
wrong thing. They don’t care a pin about what’s correct 
or incorrect. They have got queer standards of their 
own.” 

Once the word was out Jessamy hated herself for say¬ 
ing “ queer,” for speaking of the Ambers as “ they,” 
instead of “ us,” for ranging them on one side (as she 
had blamed Nanetty for doing) and herself and Claire 
on the other. What spell had Tudor Lodge cast upon 
her to make her forget past obligations? She made a 
valiant effort to retrieve herself. 

“ It’s awfully good of you, dear Claire,” she went on. 
“ But I think, perhaps, you had better not bother about 
us. You and I are friends again, and that’s all that 



DAYLIGHT 


227 


matters. I’ve got used to the life at Caroline Place. I’d 
better stick to my groove. Don’t unsettle me, please.” 

Claire smiled and squeezed the hand she held. 

“ You dear, loyal, foolish child! But of course I must 
unsettle you, as you call it. It’s dreadfully bad for you 
to get into a groove, and for your nice husband, too. I 
shan’t ask you to do anything that you really don’t want 
to do, but you must let me have the pleasure of seeing 
you sometimes. You don’t know how lonely I’ve been 
without you — how often I-” she broke off sud¬ 

denly: then went on with a change of tone. “ I know 
that Mr. Amber wanted to have friendly relations be¬ 
tween us. Now, didn’t he?” 

“Yes. . . . From the very first,” Jessamy 

admitted. 

“Ah! Then you haven’t a leg to stand on, dearest 
child,” smiled Claire. “ We’ll be such a happy little 
family together, and you must help me to plan out my 
little festivities.” 

In spite of her disclaimer Jessamy brightened at the 
prospect. She had shut her eyes to the allurement of 
theatres, concerts, dinners, dances — all the little gaieties 
in which she had once delighted so whole-heartedly. She 
had made her conscientious protest, and it had been 
swept aside. The child was to have its toys again. Life, 
for the woman, was to be grey no longer, but gay and 
full of colour once more. She thrilled involuntarily at 
the thought. 

“ It sounds delightful,” Jessamy murmured. 

“ It will be delightful, I hope,” said Claire. “ What a 
charming partie carree we shall be. Four is such a nice 
number for going about. You’ve relieved my mind 
greatly, Jessamy, about the gauche cousin. We certainly 
don’t want her for a spoke in our wheel.” 

For an instant Claire’s French phrases reminded 
Jessamy of Mrs. Chalfont-Smythe; then she felt that she 
could not in any way fit Claire into the atmosphere of 



228 


MARSH LIGHTS 


Caroline Place. She would not “ belong ” somehow. 
Claire and Nanetty, for instance! . . . Jessamy 

smiled at the thought. She could see her stepmother’s 
lips curling scornfully at Mrs. Daylight’s crudities, or at 
the bouncing Waldron babies, and she knew suddenly 
that she did not want Claire to come to Caroline Place. 

Mrs. Wyatt rose and pressed the bell near the fire¬ 
place. 

“ I’m going to ring for tea and poor, patient Lucas,” 
she said smiling, coupling the meal with the man as if 
one were as necessary and inevitable as the other. “ You 
must admit that he deserves a little attention now. . . . 
I’ve ordered the Russian sandwiches and the almond 
cakes and drop-scones that you used to love, Jessamy. 
I hope you have a good appetite, dear.” 

II 

At the sound of Nanetty’s latch-key in the hall-door 
Yule pushed aside his sketches. He had worked fever¬ 
ishly all day, save for the brief disturbances of Jessamy’s 
appearance and disappearance, and now he felt that it 
was a long time since he had seen any one to speak to. 

The house had settled down to a deadly stillness once 
Grote’s car had vanished with Jessamy. It was high 
time for some human intercourse, Amber felt. He rose, 
stretched himself, yawned and went out on to the land¬ 
ing with his hands in his pockets. 

Nanetty was coming upstairs with a paper bag in her 
hand. She looked very tired and worn, Amber thought, 
but her eyes brightened suddenly at sight of him. 

“Hallo, you in?” she cried, a note of pleasure in her 
voice. “ I had an idea that you were out.” She held 
up her bag. “ I’ve bought cream buns for tea. Let’s 
have it up in my studio. We can make toast at the gas- 
fire, if you like.” 

“ Good,” cried Yule. “ We’ll have a picnic. I’ll run 


DAYLIGHT 


229 


down and fetch the tray and bring up a loaf and butter. 
I didn’t realize it, but I believe that’s just what I’ve 
been wanting.” 

He went quickly down the stairs and Nanetty heard a 
cheery voice calling for Emma. She went with quickened 
steps up to her own domain. The momentary exhilara¬ 
tion of her interview with Julius Brand had faded and 
the prospect before her was dark indeed. 

She had earned enough by her work for him to give 
her a feeling of independence. To have that source of 
income absolutely blocked for the next two years 
made her feel lost and bewildered. There were so 
few other things she could do. Painting was her one 
rather unremunerative talent. She had hoped to be able 
to leave Caroline Place sooner or later. She could not 
believe that her presence there was really necessary to 
Yule’s happiness. Of late they had seemed but to rasp 
one another. Yet now — where was she to go? Yule 
must be told something. She knew that, yet she was loth 
to do anything that might add to the burden he already 
had to bear. 

She had just spread a gaily-coloured cloth on the end 
of her studio table, when she heard the edge of the tray 
knock against the door. 

“ Coming, coming,” she cried, as she ran to open it. 

“ I’ve brought everything but the tea,” Yule said tri¬ 
umphantly. “ Mrs. Daylight is making it.” 

“ I’ll have some toast ready by the time you’re back.” 

It did not occur to either of them that they were rather 
self-consciously trying to re-create a lost atmosphere, to 
re-capture an old cheerfulness. The result was quite 
effective for the moment. It lasted until the cream buns 
and toast were eaten and the final cup of strong tea 
drunk. 

Then silence fell, and Yule felt for his pipe. 

Nanetty reached for her packet of Woodbines and lit 
one. 


230 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ I’ve had a bit of a blow, Yule,” she said abruptly. 

He looked quickly at her. “ I’ve been wondering what 
it was.” 

“ You knew, then?” 

“ Of course I knew there was something wrong, only 
I didn’t know what it was. Tell me, old thing.” 

“ I’ve just discovered that Brand has been faking my 
pictures and selling them as originals.” 

“ Nanetty!” 

“ It’s quite true. He didn’t make an attempt to deny 
it. I had the pleasure of telling him to his face what I 
thought of him, though that’s not really very much 
satisfaction.” 

“ The scoundrel!” Yule forgot to light his pipe in his 
anger. “What did he say?” 

“ He had the insolence to suggest that I knew about 
it all along, and to assume that I would go on working 
for him until my two years’ contract was up.” 

“ But you won’t, of course?” 

“What do you take me for? . . . All the same, 
heroics apart, it makes me a pauper at once. I have no 
other source of income, as you know. Painting is the 
only thing I can do, and Brand swears he will prosecute 
me if I attempt to sell my work to any one else but him. 

. . . He’s within his rights, Yule. I told you I had 
sold-” 

“ But, Nanetty, surely you know that what’s 
mine-” 

“ No, it isn’t,” answered Nanetty sharply, but she 
softened the quick asperity of her refusal with a smile. 

“ I must be independent, boy. At Radnor Terrace at 
least I earned my keep by looking after the house. Here 
— look here, Yule. You pay Emma thirty-six pounds a 
year. Will you pay me the same and let me do her 
work?” 

Yule sprang to his feet. 

“I’ll see you damned first!” he almost shouted. 




DAYLIGHT 231 

Nanetty’s eyebrows went up. “Yule, dearl Need 
you be so violent?” 

“ I need. I must. I want to smash something. I’d 
like to shake the breath out of your body for even mak¬ 
ing such a suggestion!” 

“ Very well, then. Consider it unmade,” returned 
Nanetty calmly. “ Sit down and light your pipe and let 
us talk sense.” 

“We couldn’t very well talk more damnable non¬ 
sense.” 

“ Do you really think so?” 

“ What’s money? . . . What’s the use of the 

beastly thing if one can do nothing one wants with it?” 

“ You can do heaps of things you want with it,” 
Nanetty said. “ But won’t you be unselfish and let me 
keep the only thing I’ve left — my independence?” 

“ Oh, damn your independence!” growled Yule. 

“ By all means. . . . Can’t you see eye to eye 

with me about this?” 

“ What do you want to do? Go out and char?” 

“ Something like that. . . . Mrs. Chalfont-Smythe 
was talking to me last night about a rich old lady who 
wants a really reliable person to look after her birds and 
take her pet dogs for a walk every day. I was wonder¬ 
ing -” 

“ I can’t see you in an environment of birds and pet 
dogs,” grunted Yule. 

“ Nor I,” admitted Nanetty frankly. “ Still it would 
be an honest livelihood, and better than being a party to 
a cheat.” She suddenly covered her eyes with her hands. 
“ I feel smirched, Yule,” she said very low. 

He stopped in his pacing up and down the sparsely- 
furnished room, and went and put his arm round her 
shoulder. 

“ You, the cleanest souled, most honourable, whitest 
of women!” he cried. “You can’t — you mustn’t feel 
that, even for an instant.” 


232 


MARSH LIGHTS 


His warmth, his championship brought balm to her 
wounds. She raised her head and kissed the thin cheek 
nearest to her. 

“You dear!” she said in a choked voice. Then she 
cleared her throat and went on: “I’m going to put it 
all behind me and begin again. You won’t put obstacles 
in my way, Yule?” 

“ God forbid!” said Amber humbly. “ I only want to 
help you, Nfrnetty.” 

“ You’ll help me best by letting me go my own way.” 

“ How did you find out about this thing?” 

Nanetty hesitated, but only for a second. “ That man 

— Grote — told Jessamy. He thought I knew. That 
was what stung most sharply. It rankles still.” 

“ Jessamy didn’t believe it?” The assertion was flung 
down like a challenge. 

“ Not altogether. . . . She wasn’t quite sure, 
though. How could she be? She doesn’t really know 

— us.” 

“ She ought to by this time,” said Yule fiercely. 

“ In a way she does, of course, but in another sense 
we’re strangers to her. It must have been a bit of a 
shock to her when some one out of her past life turns up 
and amusedly insinuates that one of us fakes pictures 
and the other owes his luck at cards to playing with a 
marked pack!” 

“ Jessamy never believed that.” 

“ Of course she didn’t, but on the strength of that 
little incident she may be more ready to believe the next 
shady thing that’s suggested of us,” said Nanetty dryly. 
“ I tell you, Yule, that man is going to fight for her. He 
wants her, and he means to have her. It’s madness on 
your part-” 

“ Listen, dear old thing,” interrupted Yule gently, 
putting a visible restraint on himself. “ I must act 
according to my own lights, whether-” 




DAYLIGHT 


233 


1 Whether they’re marsh lights or not,” interrupted 
Nanetty in her turn. “And leading you to your own 
destruction.” 

“ I don’t believe they’re marsh lights.” 

“ No one ever does,” retorted Nanetty. 


Ill 

Mrs. Wyatt was clever enough not to press her invi¬ 
tation to dinner after Jessamy’s first refusal. 

“ I’d love to stay, Claire,” the girl said, rising reluc¬ 
tantly. “ But they’ll be expecting me at Caroline Place.” 

“ Of course, dear. I quite understand. You’re on the 
telephone, of course?” 

“ No,” Jessamy admitted. 

“ Ah, then, I must write and arrange an evening for 
you and — I really must call him Yule-” 

“ Please do, Claire.” 

“ You and Yule to come and dine here. I want to go 
to see you, too, Jessamy, in your new home. I want to 
be able to picture you in your own surroundings.” 

“ It’s a queer old house that was left to Yule by a 
cousin of his.” In spite of her depreciation Jessamy felt 
a little touch of pride at the thought of her own improve¬ 
ments in that queer old house. Then she suddenly rea¬ 
lized how bare and, probably, poverty-stricken it would 
look to Claire, accustomed as she was to every evidence 
of wealth in her surroundings. Again she was aware of 
the fact that she did not wish Claire to come to Caroline 
Place: but how could she say so? 

“We’ll fix things up later on. Perhaps — Yule — 
will let you come and stay here for a few days. You 
would like to collect your own possessions, wouldn’t 
you?” 

“ Yes, there are some pictures and-” 

“ There are a great many of your belongings still here, 




234 


MARSH LIGHTS 


dear — but I shall insist upon your coming to collect 
them yourself.” 

“ Very well, Claire.” 

As Jessamy put up her face to be kissed she felt that 
it was unreal and unnatural for her to be leaving Tudor 
Lodge at all. Claire seemed to think so, too. 

“ You’re going to take the child back, Lucas?” 

“ Of course.” 

Claire turned with a charmingly apologetic air to 
Jessamy. 

“ I can’t call it home yet, dear. I can’t picture any 
place but Tudor Lodge as your home.” 

Jessamy looked about her with a strange mingling of 
feelings. Old loyalties were at war with new. 

“ It does seem odd to think of it, but Caroline Place 
really is my home now.” 

“ This will always be your home, dear child. You 
must look on it as a haven of refuge when the cook gives 
notice or the other domestics leave you suddenly in the 
lurch,” Claire smiled. 

“ Oh, good old Daylight isn’t likely to give notice,” 
Jessamy returned. “ I really must tear myself away 
now, Claire.” 

“ It’s hard to let you go — isn’t it, Lucas?” 

“ We’re not letting her go,” said Grote, in a comfort¬ 
ingly matter-of-fact tone. “ She’s come back into our 
lives for good. She has promised me that she’s never 
going to run away again, haven’t you, Jess?” 

“ Yes,” said Jessamy rather low. 

In spite of her pleasure in this dear unexpected re¬ 
newal of the past she had a sudden sense as of something 
inevitable, something that loomed dimly ahead of her, 
which she must one day encounter and perhaps con¬ 
quer . . . or be conquered by. . . . She dismissed 
the absurd sensation with a little shrug of her shoulders. 

“ Say good-bye to Claire, then, Lucas, and take me 
home,” she commanded. 


DAYLIGHT 


235 


Grote opened his lips as if to speak, but a warning 
glance from Mrs. Wyatt checked him. 

“ Come along, then,” he said. “ Goodnight, Claire. 
See you again sooner or later. I’ll ring you up and let 
you know when I’m coming.” 

“ Do, in case I should be out,” returned Mrs. Wyatt, 
fully understanding that he meant to come back and dine 
with her .once he had left Jessamy at Caroline Place. 

As they drove back to Chelsea through the blue spring 
dusk Jessamy said in rather a small voice: 

“ I’m glad you’re not going back to Tudor Lodge 
tonight, Lucas.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Because — somehow — I shouldn’t like to think that 
you and Claire — were discussing me — talking me 
over.” 

Grote smiled. “ Silly little thing! I don’t want to 
‘ talk you over,’ as you put it. You’re there, Jess, all the 
time. I don’t need to discuss you.” 

Jessamy felt vaguely reassured. 

“ I never pretended to you that I was a saint, Jess. 
Now did I?” asked Grote with a disarming frank¬ 
ness. 

“ No, Lucas.” 

“ Well, I’m not,” he went on. “ But ever since I 
knew you the thought of you kept me straight. When 
I — lost you — I nearly went off my head. I don’t 
want to go off the rails again, Jess. ... If you care 
to — you can still keep me straight. If you just let me 
see you ... let me be with you. . . . You don’t 
know what an influence you have over me, you little 
white thing with stars in your eyes!” 

It was the age-old appeal, irresistible to the heart of 
woman. It came with all the greater force to Jessamy 
because it seemed to preclude even the faintest dis¬ 
loyalty to her husband. Yule, who was so idealistic, so 
quixotic even, would surely be willing to cede this grace 


236 


MARSH LIGHTS 


to the man who loved her. He, who was so keen on 
helping other people, on thinking tolerantly of their short¬ 
comings— why, he had already done so: had already 
acquiesced in the renewal of her friendship with Lucas. 
Jessamy suddenly realized this with a little leap of her 
heart. 

“ Of course I care to help you,” she said, a quiver of 
agitation in her voice. “I — I realize that I treated you 
badly. I — I know that I have a good deal to make up 
for. You — you shall have all that I can honourably 
give you, Lucas.” 

Grote’s lips twitched with quick satisfaction. It was 
just the frame of mind that he desired to induce in her, 
but he had scarcely hoped to encompass it so quickly. 

“ That’s all right, little girl.” 

“ And now, Lucas, please,” Jessamy continued with a 
change of tone, “ let’s forget all these uncomfortable, un¬ 
happy things as far as we can. Let us just be nice and 
ordinary again.” 

“As if you could ever be ordinary!” returned Grote, 
with a challenging flash of eyes and teeth. 

Jessamy smiled. It was a boldness that could earn no 
rebuke; for what woman has ever yet resented being set 
apart from the herd? A tangible pinnacle may have its 
disadvantages, but an intangible one is always veiled in 
irresistible glamour. 

When Grote parted from her at her own hall-door 
Jessamy could not know that he sped back to Tudor 
Lodge as fast as the traffic regulations would allow, 
impatient to hear from Mrs. Wyatt’s lips whatever little 
secrets the girl might have revealed during the after¬ 
noon’s interview. 

Claire had no scruples about telling him, but an un¬ 
willing admiration for Amber pricked her to say at the 
close of her recital: 

“ Whatever Yule Amber may be, at least he has acted 
like a gentleman.” 


DAYLIGHT 


237 


“ And a fool, you must admit also, Clair-de-lune,” 
exclaimed Grote in high good-humour. 

“ At least a chivalrous one,” murmured Claire: but it 
is to be doubted that Grote heard her, so wrapt was he in 
the dreams of the future which his mind was so busily 
weaving. 

IV 

Jessamy let herself into the house. 

The hall was in economical darkness. She switched on 
the light. There was no sound of life or movement any¬ 
where save the sudden crash of a plate down in the base¬ 
ment, which portended one of Emma’s frequent break¬ 
ages. 

She opened the drawing-room door and went in. The 
room had the stiff, almost menacing aspect of a room 
which has not been used. The fire had been lit, but was 
now almost out. The place looked bare after the draw¬ 
ing-room at Tudor Lodge with its warmth, scent and 
softness, and the grace of its masses of flowers. 

Jessamy turned away with a flat, chilly sensation. 
Before she reached the door there was a scurry of feet on 
the stairs and Yule came quickly into the room. 

“ Sorry I wasn’t down to greet you,” he said with a 
welcoming smile. “ There’s nothing so damping to the 
spirits as coming back to a dark, apparently uninhabited 
house.” 

“ No,” Jessamy agreed with a little shiver. 

“ You’re cold,” said Yule, taking her hands quickly 
in his. “ Yes, these are like stones.” 

He began to rub them gently. Jessamy drew them 
away. 

“ It’s only my hands. The rest of me is quite warm, 
Yule.” 

Yule moved away. “The fire is nearly out. I’m so 
sorry. I’ve been having tea in the studio with Nanetty 
and forgot all about it.” 


238 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ It’s Emma’s business, not yours.” 

“ Oh, never mind Emma. She’s in love, I think, and 
would forget her own head if it weren’t on her shoulders! 
I’ll get some sticks and the bellows and I’ll have a top¬ 
ping fire by the time you’ve changed.” 

“ I wish you wouldn’t bother, Yule.” 

“ It’s no bother,” Yule returned cheerfully. “ Haven’t 
you yet realized how much I like doing things for you?” 

“ Not things like that, though.” 

“ Yes, especially things like that.” 

Jessamy knew that she had been ungracious as she 
went slowly up the stairs to her own room, but she was 
conscious of the most paradoxical sense of grievance 
against Yule. 

First for his not having been downstairs to greet 
her when she came in, then for having met her so 
cheerily, with no sign of apprehension about her after¬ 
noon, and finally for his action about the fire. She did 
not want him to see to it himself. She knew that Lucas 
Grote would have had the whole domestic staff rushing 
to attend to his wants before he would have fetched a 
stick or blown a bellows, even for her. That was cer¬ 
tainly the correct masculine attitude which, at the mo¬ 
ment, she perversely preferred to Yule’s penurious 
handiness. 

Pricked by the same queer unreasonable resentment 
she put on her prettiest gown — a pale pink Liberty tea- 
frock— and went downstairs again to find Yule on his 
knees blowing the fire to a blaze. 

“ I do wish you had let Emma do that,” she said 
petulantly, as she pulled the couch forward and dropped 
into her special corner. 

Yule sat back on his heels and looked at her with a 
laugh. The firelight showed up the hollows in his cheeks 
and temples, and the first touch of frost on his hair. 

“ Does it upset your idea of what’s fitting to see me 
being useful?” he asked. “ You’ve married into the 


DAYLIGHT 239 

bourgeoisie, my dear, and you must get accustomed to 
bourgeois ways.” 

“ But those aren’t bourgeois ways,” protested Jessamy, 
smiling in spite of herself. “ A bourgeois husband would 
be far too respectable to make himself as useful as you 
do, Yule.” 

“ A step lower, then,” sighed Yule whimsically. 
“ Must we say Bohemian?” 

“ I’m afraid we must,” Jessamy laughed, once more on 
good terms with herself and the world. 

Yule had a surprisingly sweet temper, she reflected. 
There was no use in being annoyed with him. He either 
didn’t or wouldn’t see it. Besides, there was nothing to 
be annoyed about, really. Perhaps the oiled wheels and 
opulence of Tudor Lodge were a little demoralizing: the 
petting and spoiling of Claire and Lucas a trifle enervat¬ 
ing after the bracing independence of Caroline Place. 

Yule put away the hammered brass bellows which they 
had picked up together in a little by-street off King’s 
Road. 

“ Tell me all your adventures of the afternoon,” he 
said. “ I’m anxious to know how you got on.” 

“ Come and be comfortable first.” 

Yule shot a quick glance at her, then hitched himself 
along the floor until his shoulder touched her knee. He 
leaned back his head on the edge of the couch and looked 
up at her. 

“ You don’t mind?” 

“ Of course not,” said Jessamy hastily. Then, with 
an unexpected graciousness, she put out her hand and 
drew his head against her knee. “ Is that more comfy?” 
she asked, smiling down at him, her pulses quite un¬ 
quickened by the contact. 

Yule drew a breath that was almost a gasp. 

“Also a sweete Hell it is, 

And a sorrowfull Paradis,” 


he murmured. 


240 


MARSH LIGHTS 


Jessamy, her hand light as a butterfly upon his hair, 
bent to listen. 

“ What did you say, Yule?” 

“ I was only quoting Chaucer,” he answered. “ A 
pernicious habit, quotation.” 

“ Oh, no,” answered Jessamy politely. 

Yule sat there, rigid for a moment, his cheek against 
the smoothness of Jessamy’s silken gown, his whole 
being on fire with that butterfly touch on his hair and the 
consciousness of her dear unattainable nearness. He 
closed his eyes to savour the full poignance of his “ sweete 
Hell and Sorrowfull Paradis,” and touched for an instant 
a bitter-sweet ecstasy. 

How long the silence lasted only Jessamy knew; and 
her thoughts were busy elsewhere, when a rather strained 
voice broke in upon them. 

“ Shocking lapse of manners on the part of a Bohe¬ 
mian! I really do want to hear all about your afternoon, 
Jessamy.” 

V 

“ You ought to marry, Lucas,” said Julius Brand, 
looking keenly at his nephew. “ You’ve philandered 
long enough. It’s time you settled down.” 

Brand was a stout man of strongly-marked features 
and a striking pallor, which made him look older than his 
sixty-seven years. He would probably look no older 
when he was eighty, Grote thought, as he studied him 
from the other side of the big knee-hole desk which 
blocked up most of the little inner office at the Leyden 
Galleries. 

“ Right as usual, Uncle Julius,” he agreed, stroking 
his little moustache: a trick which went incongruously 
with its modern brevity. 

“ What about the Wyatt widow? She’s a fine woman 
and very well off, I hear. Beside, you once had passages, 
hadn’t you?” 


DAYLIGHT 


241 


“ Cut laurels,” returned Grote briefly. 

Brand smiled: then left the subject for a moment. 

“ I have a crow to pluck with you, Lucas,” he said. 
“ Why did you give the show away to Miss Cotes the 
other day? She really didn’t know about the fakes, and 
she refuses now to do any more work for me. She came 
here in a fury two days ago. I had to threaten her with 
the law-” 

“ The law, my dear uncle?” Grote’s eyebrows went 
up, and his lips gave the amused twitch that did duty 
with him for a smile. “ Wasn’t that, to say the least of 
it, a little risky on your part?” 

Julius Brand’s answering grin showed yellowish teeth. 

“ I flatter myself that I know more than the A B C of 
the art of bluff.” 

“ But suppose she had threatened to expose your 
frauds?” 

“ Just so.” Brand nodded. “ These over-scrupulous 
people are seldom clever, Lucas. If she had done that I 
shouldn’t have had a leg to stand on. She could have 
made matters devilish unpleasant for me if she had only 
had the wit to see it.” 

Grote laughed. “ Lucky for you she hadn’t. I never 
meant to give you away, Uncle Julius. I thought from 
the lady’s demeanour that she knew all about it. In any 
case, it was only a slip of the tongue. I’m awfully sorry 
about it.” He had no intention of bringing Jessamy into 
the matter. 

“ No use crying over spilt milk. . . . But she had 
a touch, that woman. Sometimes, after my process, I 
could scarcely tell copy from original myself. She was 
one of my best workers. It’s a confounded nuisance 
and a big loss to me that she’s cried off. ... I won¬ 
der how I could put the screw on to make her come 
back.” Brand sighed thoughtfully and rested his head 
on his hand. “ She has no money but what she earns, I 
know. She told me so herself.” 



242 


MARSH LIGHTS 


There was a rap at the door. Julius Brand, straighten¬ 
ing himself to say “ Come in,” assumed the business 
manner which he had dropped like a discarded cloak 
while talking to his nephew. 

An elderly assistant entered. 

“ Yes, Samson, what is it?” 

“ A gentleman wishes to see you, sir. On business, he 
said. He asked me to give you this card.” Samson held 
out a visiting-card. 

Brand took it and read: “ Mr. Yule Amber! Odd 
name. Now, who the deuce is Mr. Yule Amber? Does 
he look like a customer, Samson?” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ He isn’t a customer,” Grote cut in. “ He’s a cousin 
of that Miss Cotes of whom we were speaking just now.” 

“The deuce he is!” said Brand. “Tell him I will 
be with him in a minute, Samson.” When the man had 
closed the door behind him, he turned to Grote. “ What 
the devil does this mean, Lucas? Do you know the 
fellow?” 

“ I’ve met him. I think he’s harmless, uncle. Another 
of those fools of whom, according to the wise man, the 
world is mainly composed.” 

“ Hm!” Brand turned over the situation in his mind. 
“ What is he after, I wonder?” 

“ Don’t bring him in here. I don’t want to be mixed 
up in this business,” said Grote quickly. 

“ It appears that you’ve got yourself mixed up in it 
already,” returned Brand dryly. “ Well, I’d better see 
the fellow, and find out what he’s up to.” 

He left the inner office and went down through the 
series of rather dark rooms filled with old books, old 
china, old furniture, old armour — a heterogeneous col¬ 
lection of antiquities, old and new, that comprised the 
stock-in-trade of the Leyden Galleries. 

Yule Amber awaited him in the outer room in full view 
of Samson. Brand advanced and bowed courteously. 


DAYLIGHT 


243 


“You wished to see me, Mr. Amber?” 

“ Yes,” answered Yule, to whom the inspiration of his 
visit had come during a sleepless night. “ Can I speak 
to you in private for a moment?” 

“ Certainly.” Brand led the way to one of the inner 
rooms and drew forward two Jacobean chairs in a recess 
formed by a Queen Anne sideboard and a mahogany 
book-case. “ Will you be seated, Mr. Amber?” 

He placed Yule’s chair where the thin light fell on his 
face. 

“If you will kindly tell me in what way I can serve 
you?” he hinted, politely. 

The man was not as Yule pictured him. Brand’s 
pallor and deep-set eyes suggested a state of health which 
roused his ready sympathy, despite his righteous anger 
on Nanetty’s behalf: his courteous manner was dis¬ 
arming. 

“ You can serve me by cancelling the contract which 
you made with my cousin, Miss Cotes,” answered Yule, 
going straight to the point. 

Brand coughed. “ Dear me, Mr. Amber, this is a very 
surprising suggestion. Why should I do such a thing? 
Miss Cotes was one of my most successful artists, and I 
consider that she has left me most shamefully in the 
lurch.” 

Yule hardened. “ I shouldn’t be in such a hurry to 
call another person’s conduct shameful, Mr. Brand, if I 
were you. 

“ What would be thought of you if I were to expose the 
frauds which you’ve practised for years upon an unsus¬ 
pecting public?” 

Brand’s cavernous eyes blinked. . . . The young 

man was not quite such a fool as Lucas had made out. 
He had his finger on the screw, and could twist it as 
tightly as he chose. If he wished to bleed him. . . . 
But not for nothing had Julius Brand boasted his mastery 
of the art of bluff. 


244 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“Am I to take it that this is blackmail?” he asked 
gently. 

Yule reddened. “ Good God, no!” 

“ What then?” 

“ Merely an hypothesis.” 

“ In plain English-” suggested Brand, pausing. 

“ In plain English, then,” agreed Yule. “ I mean that 
with my cousin’s innocent aid you have been perpetrat¬ 
ing a fraud upon the public for years. It would be 
greatly to your discredit and disadvantage if this were 
exposed-” 

“ To your cousin’s discredit also, Mr. Amber.” 

“ It is you who, as principal in the fraudulent transac¬ 
tion, would get all the blame.” 

“ All the kicks, in fact,” began Brand, smiling. 

“ As you have undoubtedly got all the ha-pence,” 
interrupted Yule quickly. “ You can’t deny that your 
reputation would be ruined if the fraud were exposed. 
You have a reputation, I presume?” 

“ Practically world-wide,” murmured Brand. 

“ Well, then . . .?” 

“ Am I to take it that you propose to expose me? I 
warn you that it would be a long and costly business.” 

“ A good deal of damage could be done to your repu¬ 
tation without going to law. You daren’t prosecute me 
for libel supposing that I-” 

“ I decline to suppose that you are going to do any¬ 
thing so foolish. I am not an unreasonable man, Mr. 
Amber. The creaking of the law-machine is to me a dis¬ 
tasteful sound. Will you tell me in a few words what it 
is exactly that you want?” 

“ I want you to tear up my cousin’s contract, and leave 
her free to sell her work elsewhere if she can. I want you 
to promise not to put any obstacles in the way of her 
doing so.” 

“ In return for which-?” Brand’s eyes questioned 

him shrewdly. 






DAYLIGHT 


245 


“ In return for which I promise not to expose your 
abominable frauds.” 

“ Do you think that is a strictly honourable course of 
conduct, Mr. Amber?” asked Brand, with an air of 
amusement which suddenly infuriated Yule. 

“No, confound you, I don’t! But it’s a bargain on 
my cousin’s behalf. I’m not breaking a lance for the 
general public. If they’re foolish enough to be gulled 
by you, let them. I don’t care if I am compounding a 
felony, or whatever you call it. All I care about is that 

Nan-my cousin should be free to do the only work 

she likes doing, and that you should promise not to put 
a spoke in her wheel.” 

“ Would you take my word, then?” 

“ Yes, of course,” answered Yule. “ You’d have to 
take mine. It’s better not to put these things on paper, 
isn’t it?” 

“ Much better.” 

“ I know that there are tricks of the trade in almost 
every business,” Yule went on, rather uncomfortably. 
“ And that men who are strictly honourable in other 
respects think nothing of them.” 

“ That’s why you are willing to take my word, then, in 
spite of what you call — let me see — yes, my abomi¬ 
nable frauds?” 

Yule’s thin face reddened again. “ Yes.” 

Brand rose. “ I will fetch the contract, it is in my 
safe. You can take it to your cousin and let her destroy 
it herself.” 

Yule’s eyes shone. “ Thanks awfully,” he said with 
the smile that irradiated his plainness. 

Brand turned without a word and went back through 
the crowded rooms to his office. He was a heavy man 
and moved heavily: but his thoughts were alert enough 
as he entered the inner chamber, where his nephew was 
smoking one of the cigars he kept for specially favoured 
clients. 



246 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“Well, Uncle Julius?” said Grote, as the old man 
entered and crossed the room to his safe. 

“ Well, Lucas?” Brand opened his safe and took out 
a bundle of papers, which he began to examine. “ That’s 
a queer chap, that Amber. . . . A bit of a fool cer¬ 
tainly, but if there were no fools in the world what would 
we clever fellows do? . . . Eh, Lucas?” 

Grote laughed uncertainly. He did not quite under¬ 
stand his uncle’s tone. 

“ Who is that fellow, Amber? What do you know 
about him?” Brand selected a paper from the bundle, 
snapped on its elastic band again and put it back into 
the safe. 

“ Merely that he’s husband of the woman I’m going to 
marry,” Grote answered with an assumed lightness. 

Old Brand turned round from the safe with a flash 
from his cavernous eyes. 

“ No scandal, Lucas,” he warned. 

“ Oh, there’ll be no scandal, uncle, I assure you. 
Amber is the sort of idiot who’ll be willing to let himself 
be divorced once he knows that she wishes it.” 

Brand checked speech, looked at Grote, and said very 
slowly: 

“ I wonder, nephew . . . I wonder!” 

Then he turned on his heel and made his way out 
through the flotsam and jetsam of the centuries to where 
Yule Amber awaited him. 

Amber rose as the other approached. Brand held out 
a paper. 

“ Here is Miss Cote’s contract. I give you my word, 
Mr. Amber, that I shan’t do anything to prevent her 
from selling her work how and where she likes, on con¬ 
dition that you and she hold your tongues about this 
little — what you very properly call trick of the trade. 
. . . Will that do?” 

“ Perfectly,” Yule answered, putting the paper, folded 
as it was, into his breast-pocket. “ I don’t know about 


DAYLIGHT 


247 


you, Mr. Brand, but I do know that my cousin would be 
deadly ashamed to let any one know that she was party 
to such a fraud.” 

“ Hmm,” grunted Julius Brand. “ You haven’t looked 
at that paper, Mr. Amber. Never take anything for 
granted in this tricky old world.” 

“ Oh, the world isn’t tricky,” began Yule. 

“ Only the people in it,” continued Brand. “ Well, it 
is the Cotes contract, as it happens, so you’re safe this 
time.” 

“ I never for an instant imagined that it was anything 
else,” said Yule. “ Good-evening, Mr. Brand. Thank 
you for meeting me half-way.” 

“ Good-evening, Mr. Amber.” Brand accompanied 
him to the door of the Galleries. “If ever you want to 
buy any antiques I promise you that you shall have the 
genuine article if you deal here.” 

“ Thanks,” smiled Yule, buttoning up his coat over 
the precious contract. “ I’m afraid there is no likeli¬ 
hood of my ever being rich enough to indulge in such 
luxuries!” 

Brand watched the thin, rather shabby figure until it 
turned the corner of the street. Then he went slowly 
back to his office. 

“I’d rather like to know the real story behind that 
queer triangle,” he mused. “ I wonder if Lucas would 
tell me if I put on the screw a bit.” 

VI 

Yule walked on air as he went back to Caroline Place. 
His spirit outsoared the lumbering ’bus, as he saw him¬ 
self giving Nanetty the pleasantest surprise of her life. 
He had often given her surprises, but they had not 
always been pleasant ones. Even in this moment of 
exaltation he realized that. 

Dear old Nanetty ... she need not worry about 


248 


MARSH LIGHTS 


silly pet dogs and birds nowl Jessamy, too, would be 
pleased . . . Jessamy. . . . 

She seemed to have slipped away again from him since 
their moment of rapport the other night. How dear she 
had been then, how unutterably sweet and approachable! 
If only . . . 

The ’bus stopped with a jerk. It was only a few 
hundred yards along the Embankment to Caroline Place. 
Yule hurried his steps. In an instant the cream walls of 
the three houses would come in sight. He always loved 
this first moment of seeing them. He rounded the edge 
of the long curve and became aware of the little oasis of 
houses behind the plane-trees. 

A smart motor car, shining in violet enamel and silver, 
was just leaving the door and gliding away down the 
Embankment in the opposite direction. 

Who was in it, he wondered idly. Some of Jessamy’s 
smart friends come to call? Perhaps Mrs. Wyatt. . . . 
But if it were Mrs. Wyatt surely she would have stayed. 
She would have kept the car, not sent it away . . . 

but perhaps not. Involuntarily his pace slackened. The 
presence of strangers would inevitably take the first 
bloom off his little surprise. They could never really 
amalgamate, he and Nanetty, with these smart, opulent 
people: they moved in such totally different worlds. 

“ But then,” he told himself, “ they’re human beings 
just like ourselves. It’s only the veneer that’s different. 
They’re more highly polished than we are, that’s all. 
They’re just the same underneath once you crack the 
enamel.” 

But that was what he knew was so difficult of attain¬ 
ment. These smart people would go to any lengths of 
polished pretence rather than have their precious enamel 
cracked. He smiled at his absurd simile. By this time 
he had reached Caroline Place. He ran up the steps and 
let himself in. He stood listening in the hall for a 
moment. The drawing-room door was ajar. No murmur 


DAYLIGHT 249 

of voices came through it. He pushed the door open and 
entered. 

It was empty, but the fragrance of Jessamy’s presence 
still lingered, as if she had only just left it. A novel lay 
face downwards on the couch. Next it was her work- 
basket of gaily-coloured straws, with a half-embroidered 
camisole sticking out of it. In one pale yellow cushion 
was a dent as if her young shoulder had lately been 
pressed against it. 

Suddenly Yule was aware of a definite as well as an 
intangible perfume. He lifted his head to see masses of 
flowers everywhere: golden and orange tulips, bowls of 
lilies-of-the-valley fragile amid their own pale-green 
leaves, branches of white and purple lilac almost over¬ 
powering in their sweetness. 

He went to the windows and opened them wider, let¬ 
ting the keen spring air blow the warm stuffiness out of 
the room. 

“Jessamy must have gone out,” he thought disap¬ 
pointedly. “ I wonder if Nanetty is in.” 

Acting on the thought he ran upstairs two steps at a 
time and knocked sharply at the studio door. “ Are you 
there, Nanetty?” 

“ Come in,” answered Nanetty’s voice, to his swift 
relief. 

Idle for a wonder, Nanetty lay in a deck-chair by the 
open window, her eyes seeking the cloud-dappled blue 
sky above the chimney-pots. A faint scent of lilac came 
up from the little back-garden. She turned her head at 
Yule’s entrance. 

“ Hallo, old boy, back from your mysterious errand?” 
she said in a tone which Yule’s accustomed ear told him 
was heightened to a forced cheerfulness. 

“ Yes,” he answered. “ And the errand is no longer a 
mystery.” 

Nanetty heard a crackle of paper behind her. Then a 
folded document was dropped into her lap. 


250 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ I went out to get a little present for you,” said Yule 
in as ordinary a tone as he could achieve. “ Hope you’ll 
like it.” 

“ Yule, you shouldn’t,” protested Nanetty. “ You 
know I don’t want you to give me presents.” 

“ Open this one, anyhow, and see what you think of 
it.” 

Yule leaned over the back of the chair, lifted the paper 
and put it into her hands. Slowly Nanetty unfolded it, 
looked at it, dropped it in her lap with a startled cry. 

“ Yule! Where did you get this?” 

“ From your old Brand.” 

“ How? Why? What am I to do with it?” 

“ I would suggest burning it.” 

“Oh, Yule! Is it true? Is this the real contract? 
Am I free?” cried Nanetty excitedly. 

“ It looks like it,” answered Yule, trying to conceal 
his own delight under a dry demeanour. 

Nanetty jumped up and put her hands on his shoul¬ 
ders. 

“ Yule, you darling! How am I to thank you?” 

“ Don’t try,” said Yule, taking the work-worn hands 
in his and holding them tightly. “ Nanetty, my dear, 
don’t I owe you everything in the world, almost? Haven’t 
you always been goodness itself to me, patience, sym¬ 
pathy? What is this little thing compared to what I 
should like to do for you?” 

“ It isn’t a little thing,” said Nanetty, gruff in order 
to hide her emotion. “ It’s a big thing . . . the 

biggest thing . . . my independence-” Her voice 

broke. She pulled her hands from Yule and put her 
knuckles into her eyes, as a child might. “ Yule, dear, 
we, or rather I seem to have been very emotional of late! 
Is there any nice ordinary little thing we could do to 
reduce the temperature to normal again?” 

“ Let’s burn the contract,” Yule suggested. “ But first 
read it through carefully-” 




DAYLIGHT 


251 


“ Oh, it’s all right,” said Nanetty joyously. “ That’s 
my own old spider-scrawl signature sure enough and 
Julius Brand’s too. We’ll burn it in this tin basin that 
I wash my brushes in, and when it’s consumed and its 
ashes thrown out to the house-tops you’ll tell me how 
you worked the miracle.” 

“ It wasn’t a miracle, Nanetty. Your old friend, who 
doesn’t appear to have a very exalted opinion of man¬ 
kind, seemed inclined to suggest that it was blackmail.” 

“What nonsense! How could you possibly black¬ 
mail him?” 

Nanetty had opened the paper to its widest extent 
and laid it in the tin basin. “ The matches are on the 
mantelpiece.” 

“ We can’t use an ordinary match. We must have one 
of my wax vestas. This is a ceremony, remember.” 
Yule lit one and applied it to an edge of the contract. 
“ Here, you must light the other end. . . . Looking 

at the matter in cold blood, Nanetty, I’m afraid that it 
did seem rather like blackmail. I threatened to expose 
Brand’s fraud if he didn’t give up the contract.” 

“ But to expose him would have meant exposing me,” 
gasped Nanetty, as the paper caught and smouldered. 

“ Do you think I didn’t know that? But you had 
done no wrong, old thing, and he had. That was where 
he felt the turn of the screw. If it had been necessary to 
show him up you’d have come out with clean hands all 
right. Still, I suppose it was what you might call bluff 
on my part,” Yule went on innocently. “ For of course 
we couldn’t have afforded to have gone to law, even if we 
had a legal case, which I doubt. I could have given his 
methods a good deal of unpleasant publicity if I had 
chosen, though, and I suppose he knew that. However, 
he didn’t seem such a bad old chap, Nanetty. His 
manners were courteous and-” 

“ Oh, he was always suave enough, though one was 
conscious of a snarl beneath that smile. His conscience 



252 


MARSH LIGHTS 


must have been bad to make him give up the contract so 
easily.” 

“ Or my methods very persuasive. Do you think I’m 
cut out for a blackmailer, old thing? Shall I take it up 
instead of drawing? I might find it more lucrative.” 

“ I can’t see you a successful blackmailer, Yule.” 
Nanetty smiled at him very tenderly. 

Suddenly the paper sprang into flame. In a moment 
all that was left of the contract was a thin black film on 
which the two signatures stood out whitely: Julius 
Brand: Annette Cotes: . . . ghost names that would 
no longer haunt either signatory. 

Yule took the tin basin and jerked the ashes out of the 
window. They fluttered earthwards like black butter¬ 
flies until they came to rest among the lilac-bushes. 

“That’s over and done with, thank God,” he said. 
“ Good-bye, parrakeets! Good-bye, pet dogs! Another 
than Nanetty shall feed and lead you!” 

“Thank God, indeed!—and you too, old boy,” 
breathed Nanetty behind him. 

Yule swung round. “ And now for another studio tea- 
party! I presume that Jessamy is out, as I couldn’t find 
her anywhere downstairs.” 

“ Oh, Yule, I forgot.” Nanetty looked concerned. 
“ Mrs. Wyatt came here soon after you had gone, and 
carried Jessamy off to tea just before you came in. 
Jessamy ran up before she went to say that I was to tell 
you to follow her to Tudor Lodge the minute you got 
back.” 

“ It’s too late now. I’d much rather have tea with 
you, old thing.” 

“ Nonsense. It’s quite early yet. Put on your best 
suit and take a taxi, if necessary.” 

“ My best suit? Shall I have time to change?” 

“ Plenty. What does it matter if you’re a little late 
for tea? Stay for dinner, too, if Mrs. Wyatt asks you. 
Don’t let them have it all their own way with Jessamy.” 


DAYLIGHT 


253 


“ You prejudiced old-” 

u I’m not prejudiced. I’ve seen them both now, and 
they fulfil my worst expectations.” 

“ Nanetty! . . . Not Mrs. Wyatt!” 

11 Yes, Mrs. Wyatt, too. Insincerity to the tips of her 
pink polished fingers!” 

u Horrible example of the tyranny of the preconceived 
idea!” groaned Yule. 

“Do go, you tiresome creature!” Nanetty almost 
pushed him out of the room, and then prepared her soli¬ 
tary tea with a lighter heart than had been hers since 
the shadow of Lucas Grote first fell on Caroline Place. 

VII 

A strange period followed in the lives of both Yule 
and Jessamy Amber: a period of further restraints and 
difficult decisions for the man: of feverish excitements 
and incessant gaieties for the girl. 

Cleverly, subtly, Claire Wyatt worked for Grote and 
wove her webs about Jessamy, entangling her days, 
absorbing her interests, gradually identifying all her 
preoccupations with theirs. 

There was no perceptible exclusion of Amber. In fact, 
at first Mrs. Wyatt made rather a fuss over him. She 
professed an intense admiration for him, praising him in 
season and out of season to Jessamy, but always with the 
faint praise that damns. 

“ Dear Yule is so naive,” Mrs. Wyatt would declare 
with her most charming smile. “ He makes me feel 
horribly sophisticated.” 

And another time: 

“ Living with Yule must be rather like living with a 
bracing March wind. He ruffles up all one’s little imper¬ 
fections until they are painfully visible.” 

Or — 

“ Don’t you enjoy coming down from your mountain- 
top, Jessamy, and being of the earth earthy once more? 


254 


MARSH LIGHTS 


Dear Yule lives in a rarefied atmosphere that is rather 
unsuitable for our poor human lungs.” 

Never a thistle-down shaft that had not its own faintly 
malicious barb. 

At first Jessamy turned each dart aside with a smile, 
plucking the tiny pricking thing out, as it were, and 
casting it from her: but after a while they stuck and hung 
there rankling. 

She was not consciously disloyal to Yule, but all the 
peace of her earlier days at Caroline Place was gone. 
Her position suddenly seemed strangely anomalous. She 
was married and yet not married. She had an unac¬ 
knowledged— no, a very definitely acknowledged lover, 
and yet she was perfectly pure and good. Even her hus¬ 
band did not object to his presence in her daily life. 

Grote, in the background, was a distinctly glamorous 
figure. She had no idea how slowly, how insidiously he 
was edging his way into the foreground of her days. 

Yule had said that he worshipped her, and yet he kept 
her more or less at bay. She had no idea how her care¬ 
less little familiarities tortured him. He exacted nothing, 
and yet he expected a good deal. Claire was quite right: 
he did live in a rarefied atmosphere. 

Lucas, on the other hand, asked nothing but to be 
allowed to sun himself in the light of her presence. He 
“compassed her about with sweet observances”: sent 
her sheaves of flowers, kept her supplied with the choic¬ 
est sweets, the newest books. He always had stalls for 
the last new play, a table at the smartest restaurant. 
Unobtrusively he filled her days with little pleasures and 
amusements, so that the hours without him came to 
seem strangely flat and empty. And all he expected in 
return was just the innocent favour of her company. 

The Spring restlessness stirred Jessamy’s blood, 
troubling her vaguely. Her awakening womanhood was 
already turning in its sleep. She was conscious of a new 
sense of quickened perceptions, of opening vistas. A 


DAYLIGHT 


255 


sudden desire seized her to keep life at bay no longer, 
as she had been doing all these months. It was the 
natural reaction of youth after what she had been 
through, but she did not realize this. She only knew 
that she wanted the blossoms of happiness. What mat¬ 
ter if the roses had thorns or if the wind took some of 
their petals? She must live . . . live, live. 

Claire Wyatt never forgot her role. So imperceptibly 
did it come about that Jessamy hardly noticed when 
Yule first began to be dropped out of the once-desired 
partie carree . 

Claire would say deprecatingly: 

“ I could only get four stalls for Tuesday night, Jes¬ 
samy dearest, and I’ve already asked Mr. Ronaldson. 
Dear Yule won’t mind if I don’t include him this time?” 

“ Of course not,” Jessamy would answer promptly. 
“ He’ll quite understand.” 

“ I knew he would. He’s such a dear. And he really 
seems to be rather out of it sometimes at our little 
parties, doesn’t he?” 

Another time it would be Grote who would deliberately 
exclude Amber from his invitation; or Claire, when 
given an opera-box, would explain worriedly: 

“ The Reggie Burnetts’ cousin is staying with them 
— the celebrated explorer, you know. They asked if 
they might bring him and I couldn’t refuse — but six is 
the absolute limit for that box. Dear Yule won’t 
mind-” 

“ Of course not,” Jessamy would say again, but 
without quite so much conviction. 

Oddly enough, she could not feel comfortable about it 
until she had asked Yule himself: but when he assured 
her that he quite understood, she made up her mind to 
enjoy herself whole-heartedly without him. 

“ Mrs. Wyatt is always most charming,” Yule said. 
“ But between ourselves, Jessamy, I never feel as if I 
could breathe properly at Tudor Lodge.” 



256 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ That’s what Claire says. She says that you live in 
a more rarefied atmosphere than-” 

“What utter tosh!” exclaimed Yule. “I meant 
something absolutely material. The rooms there are 
always too warm, too scented for my taste. That’s all. 
. . . Do you really enjoy it, Jessamy?” he continued 
with a hint of pleading. “ Aren’t you glad sometimes to 
come back to the bareness and freshness of this little 
house?” 

“ Of course,” answered Jessamy loyally. “ Don’t 
people say that contrast is the spice of life? Between 
this and Tudor Lodge I feel as if I were living in two 
different worlds.” 

“ So you are. Two totally different worlds. Which 
are you going to choose, I wonder?” 

Jessamy looked startled. “ What on earth do you 
mean, Yule? Why can’t I have both?” 

“ You can have both for the present,” Yule answered, 
quietly, “ but you’ll have to choose between them ulti¬ 
mately, you know. Not now. I want you to have a fair 
chance of judging. I’ll tell you more later on. You 
needn’t worry about it tonight.” 

Jessamy looked perturbed. His words brought a hint 
of stark reality into her play-time. 

“ I don’t understand you in the least, Yule.” 

“ Yet what I said was both simple and obvious. . . . 
Run along and enjoy yourself, my dear.” 

“ Sure you won’t be lonely or moping?” she said 
childishly, putting his ultimatum behind her. 

Yule smiled. “ I shall certainly be lonely, but I’ve no 
intention of moping,” he returned. 

When she had gone, the house, as always, seemed 
strangely empty: prophetic of what life without her 
would become. 

Amber was conscious of a sort of fatalistic calm. 
Though Nanetty accused him of drifting, he was all the 
while anchored to a decision: a decision to which he had 



DAYLIGHT 257 

come shortly after the first resumption of relations with 
Tudor Lodge. 

He knew that the present state of affairs could not 
continue indefinitely. Jessamy had married him on a 
mad impulse, spurred to such a risk by what she now 
discovered had been a mistake. He had married her 
because he worshipped and adored her, and because he 
would have willingly laid down his life for her had cir¬ 
cumstances demanded it. The sacrifice of his future 
happiness was not too great a price to pay for the secur¬ 
ing of hers. 

He had quite made up his mind. 

Jessamy was to have a perfectly free hand. He would 
put no obstacles in the way of her experiencing anew all 
the savours of her former life: she must taste them and 
test them to the full. She knew what life with him had 
been. He would try to show her what it might become. 
He would talk straight to her when the opportunity 
came: would lay bare his inmost soul before her, as he 
had never done hitherto, then he would tell her that she 
must make her choice. 

He assumed that Grote loved Jessamy as honourably 
as he did. He gave him credit for his own restraints, 
his own scruples. If Jessamy still loved her former lover 
and wanted him she must have him. There were ways 
and means by which she could be set free, Yule imag¬ 
ined: sordid ways, distasteful means. Still, he was 
willing to make even that last sacrifice for her, if she so 
desired it. That she should be happy, that she should 
not have to pay a life-long price for her mad folly, was 
his one, most fervent wish. It was due to her to offer 
her her freedom now that the reason for her marriage 
with him no longer existed. 

Meanwhile Jessamy danced, and laughed, and flitted 
gaily through the somewhat hectic pleasures of her new- 
old existence: conscious the while that she had neither 
absolutely shed the new or re-assimilated the old: con- 


258 


MARSH LIGHTS 


scious also of an unrest, a sense of insecurity which had 
been induced by Yule’s hint of an ultimate decision. 
The thought of it hung over her like a menace, even 
while she feverishly grasped at what life brought her 
with eager, out-stretched hands. 

“ Don’t you think you’ve given her rope enough?” 
Nanetty once asked dryly. 

“ No, not yet,” Yule answered. 

Nanetty could not know that he felt himself in the 
position of a man who is condemned to death, but who 
has himself to fix the hour for his own execution; nor 
that the length of Jessamy’s rope might well be the 
length of the noose about his own happiness. 

VIII 

As so often happens, Fate at length forced Amber’s 
hand. 

It was on one of Jessamy’s now rare evenings at home, 
and she was alone in the drawing-room after what every 
one but herself called supper. 

Suddenly she drew the golden curtains together to shut 
out the troubling blue dusk and the swift inexorable 
motion of the river, on whose darkly burnished flood a 
barge or two stood out in black silhouette. Then, re¬ 
turning to the fire, for the evenings were still cold, she 
threw on some pine-logs that spurted and crackled, 
giving to the dusk of the room a sudden friendly inti¬ 
macy. She curled herself up on the couch and watched 
the leaping orange and crocus-blue flames with brooding 
eyes. 

Yule, entering, switched on the light. Jessamy looked 
up quickly. 

“ Don’t do that, please. I like it better as it is.” 

“ Sorry,” said Yule, switching it off again. “ It is 
certainly jollier like this. Mind if I smoke?” 

He felt that he could not sit near her unoccupied in 


DAYLIGHT 


259 


this half-light of flickering flames and dancing shadows. 
Once again his pipe was to be his friend. 

“You know I don’t. You might hand me my ciga¬ 
rettes. They’re on the mantelpiece.” 

“Lazy child!” 

He handed her her cigarette-case and held a lighted 
match for her use. Its flare revealed what the fire-flicker 
had hinted, that Jessamy’s eyes had shadows beneath 
them. 

“ Yule,” she said suddenly. “ Claire wants me to go 
and stay with her for a few days at Tudor Lodge.” 

“When?” asked Yule after an instant’s quick-drawn 
breath. “ And why? Is it for any special function?” 

“ Whenever I like. No, nothing special. I daresay 
she will get up something while I’m there, but she really 
wants me to collect my belongings and bring them here.” 

“ Oh,” said Yule. 

The simple explanation was like the shock of a sudden 
immersion. The moment was on him unawares: that 
moment on which his and her future entirely depended. 
He longed for the tongue of a Chrysostom, but felt cold, 
speechless, filled with a sudden deadly foreboding. 

“ You don’t mind, do you?” Jessamy went on. 

It was the inevitable formula to which the inevitable 
answer — “ Of course not ” — was duly expected. But 
it did not come this time. 

Yule said instead rather huskily: “ Do you remem¬ 
ber my saying to you some time ago that you must 
choose between — let us say — Tudor Lodge and Caro¬ 
line Place?” 

Jessamy, startled, sat straight up in her corner and 
stared at Yule. 

“ Of course I remember — and I also remember how 
absurd I thought it.” 

“ It’s not absurd, Jessamy. It’s a big vital decision 
that must affect our whole future.” 

“I never heard such nonsense,” cried Jessamy indig- 


260 


MARSH LIGHTS 


nantly. “ First of all you were constantly bothering me 
to make friends with Claire. Now when I’ve done so — 
with your entire approval, don’t forget — you suddenly 
hold a pistol at my head and say I must choose between 
Tudor Lodge and Caroline Place! I never heard any¬ 
thing so ridiculous in my life.” 

“ Put that way, it does sound rather odd, I’ll admit.” 

“What other way is there of putting it?” 

“ More than one, probably,” Yule answered. “ If 
you’ll only have patience with me I’ll try to explain what 
I mean.” 

“ It seems to me to need a good deal of explanation.” 

“ It does, Jessamy. I’ll try to be as brief as possible. 
I don’t want heroics any more than you do.” 

“ I’m glad to hear that,” exclaimed Jessamy, pulling 
up a cushion behind her and settling herself back into her 
comer with a decidedly defiant air. 

“ I’ll have to probe below the surface, though,” he 
warned her. “ We’ve got to come down to bedrock 
tonight. We’ve got to face bare facts and find out what 
— what things mean to us both.” 

“Oh, dear!” sighed Jessamy distastefully. “Just 
when everything had got so nice and ordinary.” 

“ But that’s just what it hasn’t done. Everything is 
devilish nasty and most extraordinary. For me, any¬ 
how.” 

“ For you?” queried Jessamy in astonishment. 

“ Yes, for me,” Yule repeated doggedly. “ I don’t 
want to trouble you too much with my own personal 
feelings, but almost ever since I married you, especially 
for these last few months, my life has been an absolute 
hell.” 

“I — I don’t understand you.” 

“ No, how could you, poor child? . . . Unsatisfied 

longing, perpetual desire, the torments of Tantalus-” 

He stopped abruptly; then went on in a quieter tone: 
“ You know why you married me, Jessamy?” 



DAYLIGHT 


261 


Jessamy nodded. 

“ I was to be a barrier between you and those whom 
you thought had deceived you. I was to be the means 
of putting you out of their reach for ever — a door, as it 
were, shut between you and them.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, the need for that barrier apparently no longer 
exists. ... You were quite frank with me about it. 
You made no pretence of caring either then or now. 
. . . With the disappearance of that barrier disappears 
also the reason for our marriage. ... Do you follow 
me?” 

“ Quite.” 

“ Before you met me you were engaged to Grote. 
. . . Did you love him as he loved you?” 

“ Yes,” answered Jessamy very low. 

“ Does he love you still?” 

“ Yes, Yule.” 

“ Do you love him?” 

Jessamy twisted her fingers together. “ You have no 
right to ask me that.” 

“ My dear, I am the one person in the world who has 
the right to ask you that,” said Yule gravely. His face 
took on a sudden greyish pallor. He felt that she had 
answered him already. “ I don’t want to hurt you un¬ 
necessarily, but we must get this thing clear between us. 
I have no delusions as to your feelings for me. I am not 
blaming you. ... We agreed on what our relations 
were to be before we were married. I’ve kept to my 
part of the bargain, haven’t I?” 

“ You certaiiily have,” Jessamy murmured. 

“ I used to hope ... I even hope still,” said 
Yule, lifting his head with a queer little smile, “ that you 
might some day grow to care for me as I care for you. 
For I do care for you, Jessamy. I worship you. I adore 
you. I crave for you as a man craves for the one and 
only woman. I want you with every fibre of my being, 


262 


MARSH LIGHTS 


body and soul. ... I have the legal right to take 
you, but what does the body mean unless the heart 
goes with it? Some men don’t feel like that, I know, 
but I do. You’re safe from that, as far as I’m con¬ 
cerned . . .for the time being.” 

Jessamy, really startled now, saw the drops glistening 
on his forehead in the firelight. She kept on twisting her 
hands together, but said nothing. She did not know 
what to say to this strange, new, uncomfortable Yule. 

Yule went on in a low strained voice. 

“ I’m nearly at breaking-point now. ... I can’t 
stand very much more. ... It must be one thing or 
the other between us. ... I spoke of Tantalus. Do 
you know what his torture was?” 

“ No.” 

“ Because he stole the nectar and ambrosia from the 
table of the gods he was punished in hell with an insa¬ 
tiable thirst and placed up to his chin in the middle of a 
pool of water, which flowed away whenever he attempted 
to drink it. Above his head was a bough laden with 
delicious fruit which a gust of wind blew out of his 
reach every time he tried to seize it. . . . The com¬ 
parison is an apt one — though I haven’t even attempted 
to steal any nectar and ambrosia.” 

“ Oh!” 

“ I was glad at first when you got into touch with 
your old life again. I knew that it was rather dull for 
you here at times, and I thought it good that you should 
have some interests other than ours at Caroline Place. 
But now the old life seems to have utterly absorbed you 

— in the shape of Grote and Mrs. Wyatt. You — you 

— sleep here, but that’s all. Even when you are here 
your thoughts are elsewhere. I’ve realized that for some 
time.” 

Jessamy showed a spurt of spirit. 

“ If you disapproved why didn’t you say all this 
sooner?” 


DAYLIGHT 


263 


“ I wanted to give you a fair chance,” answered Yule 
gently. “ I wanted you to test both ways of living for 
yourself before you made your choice. At first I didn’t 
think there would need to be a choice. Now I know that 
it’s inevitable.” 

“ But why, Yule, why? I can’t see why we shouldn’t 
go on as we’re going-” 

“ Do you think that it’s a wise or even a safe way?” 
countered Yule. 

Jessamy was mute. She fixed her gaze on the fire. 
. . . Yule was being very queer, very difficult, very 

disturbing. 

“ You know it’s not,” said Yule, and his voice held a 
sternness which Jessamy had never heard in it before. 
“ Though our marriage is merely a nominal one you bear 
my name and hold my honour in your hands. The pres¬ 
ent — triangular — situation is fair to none of us.” 

He stopped abruptly. Jessamy turned her head to 
look at him. 

“ How do you propose to end it, then?” she asked. 

“If you love Grote-” Yule began hoarsely. 

Jessamy was grateful to the friendly dusk that hid her 
red confusion at the implication. 

“ If you love Grote,” said Yule again. “I — I am 
prepared to take whatever steps are necessary to set you 
free to marry him.” 

“Oh!” said Jessamy in a cold little voice. “You 
seem very anxious to get rid of me.” 

The taunt flicked Yule to a sudden loss of temper. 

“My God, this is too much!” he cried. “You are 
not a child, Jessamy. You’re a woman, and you ought 
to show some of a woman’s qualities and not the flip¬ 
pancy of a flapper in a matter of vital importance like 
this. I don’t want to get rid of you and well you know 
it. It would be like tearing the very heart out of my 
body to let you go. I want to chain you to me, to seal 
you mine so closely that you could never escape, no 




264 


MARSH LIGHTS 


matter how you tried. . . . It’s just because I love 

you so desperately, you maddening, tormenting, adorable 
creature, that I want you to be happy. I want your 
happiness more than my own. Don’t you know that? 
. . . Haven’t you always known it? . . . Didn’t 

I tell you so even before we were married?” 

“I — suppose so,” faltered Jessamy, now a little 
frightened of this strange, white-faced, passionate Yule. 
“I — didn’t mean to be flippant, Yule. I — I’m sorry.” 

Suddenly she turned and, hiding her face against the 
cushion, began to cry quietly. 

“ Don’t do that,” said Yule harshly. “ I can’t stand 
it. Let me finish what I have to say while I have still 
some remnants of self-control left.” 

Jessamy, trembling, felt for her handkerchief and dried 
her eyes with a gulp or two. 

“ Go on. I’m listening,” she said. “ What do you 
want me to do?” 

She neither confirmed nor denied his statements. Her 
head seemed to be spinning in the bewilderment of this 
utterly unexpected scene. Unreal as her meeting with 
Grote had seemed this was even more unbelievable. 
Nanetty’s phrase came back to her mind. Certainly the 
bottom of Jessamy’s world seemed to have dropped out 
as she listened to Yule’s incredible speeches. 

“ We’ve come to the parting of the ways,” he was 
saying. “ And it must be either one thing or the other. 
You’re going to Tudor Lodge for a few days, you say. 
Very well then. ... Go tomorrow. Get right away 
from this house and from me. You’re too near us now 
to see things properly. At Tudor Lodge, perhaps, you’ll 
be able to get your perspective right. Think over the 
matter very deeply, very carefully before you decide, 
for once you make up your mind you won’t be able to 
change it so easily again.” 

“ But what am I to make up my mind about?” asked 
Jessamy, angered at his persistence. 


DAYLIGHT 


265 


“ Whether you’ll stick to me or go to Grote,” returned 
Yule bluntly. “You admit that he loves you. You’ve 
practically admitted that you love him. If you really 
feel that he means all the world to you and that you can’t 
live without him I — am ready to do my best to set you 
free. If you can’t honestly tell me that, I’m going to 
stick to you, Jessamy, and fight for you tooth and nail. 
There’s got to be no more drifting. You’ve got to be 
my woman, my mate. You’ve got to come right away 
with me to some quiet country place where you’ll let me 
teach you to love me. ... By God, I believe I could 
do it, too. Jessamy! . . . Jessamy! . . . Won’t 
you let me try?” 

Jessamy sprang up to face him as he came towards 
her. To her surprise she found that she was trembling 
with some sudden violent emotion. Was it anger or a 
queer exaltation? . . . She could not tell. She put 

out her hands to keep him at bay. He caught them and 
held them tightly. 

“ I decline to be a bone between two dogs!” she cried. 
“Let me go, Yule. You are behaving abominably, I 
think. You talk of womanly qualities. Are you respect¬ 
ing mine? Is this bargain, this choice a dignified one?” 

“ Dignified or no, it’s necessary. . . . Understand 

this, Jessamy. If you decide to stick to me, remember 
you’ve got to be mine in every sense of the word. I 
must be your man, your mate. I won’t have any shad¬ 
owy thirds. You may see as much of Claire as you 
wish — but I don’t expect you’ll want to see very much 
of her if you stick to me. Our worlds don’t amalgamate. 
I can’t breathe in her atmosphere. Apparently she can’t 
breathe in mine. . . . And it’s got to be either Grote 
or me, remember. Whatever way you decide it can’t be 
both. ... So that’s that.” 

“Yule! You’re mad!” 

“No. I believe I’m sane for the first time in my life,” 
cried Yule exultantly. 


266 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“Let me go.” 

“ Not till you’ve promised to do as I asked.” 

“You and your preposterous ultimatum!” 

Jessamy tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but his thin 
hands were locked round hers inexorably. 

“ No, you don’t. . . . Not until you’ve promised.” 

“ Oh, very well, then. On your own head be the 
consequences!” 

“ I’m ready to face them.” 

Amber looked for a moment at the lovely angry face 
so near his own: the face that filled his thoughts, his 
heart, waking and sleeping. Jessamy’s long curly eye¬ 
lashes were still wet. The sight made him lose his head 
a little. 

He dropped her wrists, but before she could move 
his arms were round her. He pressed her so closely to 
him that she could scarcely breathe. He groaned as 
he showered passionate kisses upon her hair, her throat, 
her cheeks. 

Jessamy lay passive under the sudden violence of his 
onslaught. When at last he released her she staggered 
a little. 

“ You brute!” she said in a low scornful tone. 

“I — I’m sorry,” he stammered, feeling dazed now 
that he had come to his senses again. 

“ You’re not sorry,” she returned, preparing for 
flight. 

“ Very well, then. I’m not sorry,” he answered, put¬ 
ting out a hand to steady himself by the mantelpiece, 
as she slipped past him. 

“ You’ve made me hate you,” Jessamy said from the 
door. 

“ I’ve made you think of me, anyhow.” 

“ There’s no fear that I shall ever forget tonight.” 

“ I hope you won’t,” said Yule. 

She was gone. He heard the light patter of her feet 
up the stairs, along the passage and into her own room 


DAYLIGHT 


267 


overhead. The sharp closing of a door followed, and 
then the click of a key turned in the lock. 

Amber winced. “ She needn’t have done that,” he 
thought. “ Have I ruined everything?” 

Then he flung himself down on the couch and lay there 
with his face hidden until the fire flickered out and the 
room grew as cold as his own hopes. 


IX 

It was nothing unusual now for Jessamy to breakfast 
in bed. She invariably did so after her late nights. She 
enjoyed the rest and luxurious reminiscence of past 
gaieties, unhampered by the necessity for making polite 
conversation downstairs. Therefore it was no surprise 
to Nanetty when she found herself alone at the break¬ 
fast-table next morning with Yule. 

Instantly her quick eye noticed some subtle change in 
him. His step seemed lighter: his eyes held a spark 
that had long been lacking: a fighting spark, as she read 
it. Curiosity pricked her, but she made no attempt to 
satisfy it until Yule’s material wants had been supplied. 
Then she said: 

“ What have you been up to, Yule?” 

Yule gave an odd little laugh. “I? What do you 
mean, Nanetty? Why should you think I’ve been up to 
anything?” 

“ Haven’t I known you, man and boy, for over thirty 
years? Do you think there’s a twist or a turn of you 
that I don’t know?” 

“ This is dreadful!” groaned Yule in mock alarm. “ I 
never realized that you were such a thought-reader. 
. . . Well, I have been up to something, as you put 

it.” 

“ What?” asked Nanetty, a tinge of anxiety creeping 
into her voice. 


268 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ Burning boats.” 

“ Again? Oh, Yule! . . . How this time?” 

Yule told her. When he had finished he looked keenly 
into the eyes so like his own. 

“ Have I done right, Nanetty, or have I been once 
more the fool you’re so fond of calling me?” 

“ Time alone will tell. . . . Personally, I think 

your only folly was in not presenting your ultimatum 
long ago. I’m afraid you’ve let them get a grip on Jes- 
samy now.” 

“ I had to be fair. I had to let her have a proper 
chance of judging,” 

“ That would be all very well for reasonable beings 
like you or me, but the young have to be led a little, 
whether they like it or not.” 

Yule pondered this for a moment. Then he said 
slowly: 

“ One of the tragedies of life is that the old nearly 
always forget what they were like when they were young, 
while the young won’t believe that the old ever could 
have been ‘ sweet and twenty ’ like themselves. We’ve 
each got to live according to the light that is in us, 
whether it’s a rushlight or a star. Other people’s illu¬ 
mination is no earthly use to us.” 

“ I’ve warned you before that you’re following a 
marshlight, Yule: an ignis-fatuus that will lead you into 
a quagmire if you’re not careful.” 

“ No, it won’t,” said Yule, with his rare smile. “ This 
time, Nanetty, I really am following a star. . . . 

My star. ... I can’t help it if it leads me into stony 
places instead of the green pastures that I long for. I’m 
acting in the only fair, straight, honourable way. Jes- 
samy married me under a misapprehension. Now that 
that has been cleared away it’s up to me to set her free 
if she wishes it.” 

“ I can’t feel that it has really been cleared away, 
somehow. You realize, of course, that this means drag- 


DAYLIGHT 


269 

ging your clean name through the mud of the Divorce 
Court?” 

“ Even so,” Yule answered, his lips taking the obsti¬ 
nate line that Nanetty knew of old. 

There was no use in further argument. 

“ When is Jessamy going to Tudor Lodge?” 

“ Today, I think.” 

“ I’d better run up and see her, then, before I go out.” 

“ Where are you going to?” 

“ Don’t you remember what I told you about my com¬ 
mission? To copy that little Botticelli Madonna in the 
National Gallery for some rich American? Cardew got 
it for me. He’ll have his commission, of course, but 
indeed I don’t grudge him that.” 

“How stupid of me! I’m afraid I had forgotten. 
I’m sorry, old thing.” 

“ I quite forgive you,” smiled Nanetty. “ You had 
much more important things to think of.” 

Later, she tapped at Jessamy’s door. 

“ Come in,” called a voice with a tiny edge on it. 

Nanetty entered, to find the room in a confusion of 
delicate garments, silk stockings, shoes and hats. Jes¬ 
samy, the flushed, bright-eyed centre of the vortex, was 
hastily packing a trunk. An open hat-box stood near it. 

Nanetty watched her from the doorway for a moment. 

“ You seem in rather a hurry,” she said dryly. 

“ Yes. I am in a hurry. I’m going to Tudor Lodge 
today. I suppose Yule has told you,” answered Jessamy 
without looking up. 

“ Yes.” 

The crisp monosyllable seemed like a full stop to 
further intercourse. That did not suit Jessamy’s mood. 
She raised herself to her knees and this time she stared 
at Nanetty. 

“ Did he also tell you that he has practically turned 
me out?” she asked defiantly. 

“ No.” 


270 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ Well, he has, then.” 

“ Jessamy, you know that’s a lie.” 

“ Thanks,” said Jessamy curtly, bending to her pack¬ 
ing once more, with hands that shook at their folding and 
placing. 

Nanetty melted. . . . Jessamy looked so young, 

she was so foolish, she might so easily make shipwreck 
of her own life and Yule’s. 

“ I shouldn’t have said that, Jessamy. But you know 
perfectly well that Yule would never turn you out.” 

“ What else is it, then? . . . Delivering his 

ridiculous ultimatum and telling me, like an old- 
fashioned melodrama, that I must choose between Tudor 
Lodge and Caroline Place! ... I never heard any¬ 
thing so absurd in my life. Now, did you?” 

“ I admit that Yule’s a fool. He should have smacked 
sense into you long ago, and then there would have 
been no need for these scenes.” 

“Smacked sense into me?” Jessamy was almost 
speechless with fury. “ You’re just as bad as he is.” 

“ Worse,” returned Nanetty imperturbably. 

“ After all I’ve done for him-” 

“ Come, come, who’s being melodramatic now? What 
have you ever done for poor Yule except to bring torment 
and misery into his life? You’ve made the house pretty 
enough with your chintzes and fallals, I grant you, but 
man can’t live on silk cushions alone! He had enough of 
that with his first wife.” 

“ Indeed? Poor woman, I am beginning to pity her!” 
said Jessamy, trembling with anger. 

“ You needn’t. She was perfectly happy, being abso¬ 
lutely blind to everything but her own perfections. 
. . . Just as you are!” Nanetty ended unexpectedly. 

Jessamy jumped to her feet. “ How dare you?” 

“ Don’t you realize yet that I would dare anything to 
make Yule happy? . . . What he sees in you I can’t 
imagine. To me you’re just an ordinary pretty girl, like 



DAYLIGHT 


271 


a thousand others, nothing in you that they couldn’t 
duplicate over and over again . . . but there it is! 
To him you’re the one woman in the world. He has 
never cared, will never care for any one else. You have 
some glamour, some enchantment for him. . . . Oh, I 
don’t know what it is. But you have it . . . and he 
adores you, to his own torment. Don’t think he ever 
complained. He didn’t. He’s not that sort. But I’m 
not blind. I’ve seen something of what you’ve been 
making him suffer. You’ve messed up his life enough 
as it is. Think well before you spoil it altogether. Have 
you any conception of what it would mean to Yule — 
clean, sensitive Yule — to have to stoop to sordid tricks 
and let his name be dragged in the dust in order to give 
you your divorce? . . . No, I don’t suppose you 

have. . . . But he’d do even that for you. Don’t act 
in a hurry. Think well before you get rid of Yule. You 
may tramp the world from end to end before you’ll find 
such another. He’s worth fifty million of your gross- 
minded cave-man, Grote, and I only hope you’ll find it 
out before it’s too late.” 

“ I’ve listened to you with great patience,” said Jes- 
samy in rather a quavering voice. “ And all I can say 
is — No, I won’t say it. I’d better not. I want to part 
on as friendly terms as I can, in case — in case I don’t 
come back again. I’m not ungrateful for past kind¬ 
nesses. I haven’t forgotten how good you both were to 
me that nightmare time, but — well, Yule can be a cave¬ 
man, too, when he likes!” She bit her lip to still its 
quivering, and the flush deepened and spread down her 
delicate neck. 

“ He should have started those tactics long ago,” said 
Nanetty grimly. “ Well, goodbye, Jessamy, and may 
the Lord put some sense into your foolish little head!” 

She turned on her heel and went out of the room, 
leaving Jessamy a-gasp. 

She continued her feverish packing until she had put 


272 


MARSH LIGHTS 


together all she could possibly want for a week or more. 
Then she went to her bath, still in the grip of that hot, 
excited, tangled feeling that would not let her think 
coherently. 

Fragments of retorts she might have made to Nanetty 
buzzed tormentingly in her brain. 

“ It will be a relief to get away from them,” she told 
herself defiantly. “ To be in a well-ordered, quiet house, 
where I shall have time to think, and where I shall be 
treated as a reasonable being and not considered either 
a fool or a child. . . . And I have done a lot for Yule. 
. . . I’ve smartened up the whole place. Look how 

pretty I’ve made the house! Even Nanetty had to admit 
that. . . . Maybe they’ll be sorry when I’ve really 

gone ... if I really go. . . .” Quickly she altered 
the form of her sentence, feeling, in spite of her sustain¬ 
ing anger, a little prick of compunction at the thought of 
leaving this quaint charming old house, where she had at 
least found a peace that was now hers no longer: that 
might never be hers again. 

She hastily finished her toilet and rang for Emma. 

“ Get me a taxi, please, Emma,” she said when the 
maid appeared. “ I am going away for a •— for a few 
days. I’m only taking that trunk and a hat-box.” 

One must keep up appearances before the servants, she 
thought, with a swelling consciousness of her own worldly 
wisdom. Then she crossed the corridor to Yule’s room 
and entered almost upon her knock. 

Yule was standing near the window, his hands in his 
pockets. He swung round as she came in. The table 
was unusually tidy. He had evidently not been working 
at all. So much Jessamy noticed before she said in a 
level tone: 

“ I’m off now, Yule. I’ve just sent Emma for a taxi.” 

“Oh,” said Yule stupidly. “You — you’re starting 
early.” 

“ The earlier the better,” returned Jessamy, drawing 


DAYLIGHT 


273 


on her gloves. “1 shall catch Claire before luncheon.’’ 

“ Yes. I suppose so. . . . Jessamy — about what 
we were saying last night-?” 

“ Well?” asked Jessamy stiffening. 

“I — you — for God’s sake don’t keep me too long 
on tenterhooks!” Yule broke out. “ You must take your 
own time to consider, of course. I don’t w T ant to hurry 
you in any way . . . but make it as mercifully short 
as you can.” 

Jessamy looked at him with a curious sense of detach¬ 
ment. 

His face seemed thinner and more lined than usual in 
the strong Spring sunlight. His eyes were almost 
cavernous, so deeply sunken were they. He seemed to 
have lost all the buoyancy, the whimsicality that had 
once rather charmed her in spite of herself. He was suf¬ 
fering, obviously . . . and suffering was ugly, disturb¬ 
ing. . . . She hardened herself against any such 

insidious appeal. 

“I — will write to you,” she conceded. 

“If you decide against me . . . let this be the 

end.” 

“ What do you mean?” 

“ I mean . . . that it’s better for us not to see each 
other again.” 

“ Ever again?” echoed Jessamy dismayed. “But I 
shouldn’t mind seeing you.” 

“ I should,” returned Yule with a twisted smile. “ Let 
me take you down to your taxi.” 

“ And say goodbye in the street like that?” 

“ Just like that. ... In spite of appearances I 
really haven’t got the melodramatic mind. Come along, 
Jessamy. I hear your taxi ticking the precious pennies 
away.” 

“Oh, if you can only think of such sordid things!” 
Jessamy turned and went quickly out of the room, chok¬ 
ing with chagrin and anger. 



274 


MARSH LIGHTS 


Without another word she entered the waiting taxi. 

“ Tell him, Tudor Lodge, please,” she said coldly. 

“ Very well.” Amber held out his hand. After an 
instant’s hesitation Jessamy put hers into it. 

“ Goodbye, Yule,” she said, with an air of offended 
dignity. 

“ Au revoir, my ‘sweete Hell and sorrowfull Paradis.’ ” 
he answered very low. “ I am not going to say good¬ 
bye.” 

Her hand felt cramped when he dropped it and turned 
to give the address to the taxi-driver. She rubbed it as 
the car started. On an impulse she put her head out of 
the window and looked back at Caroline Place, glowing 
warmly in the morning sunlight, with its budding plane- 
trees and busy sparrows: an oasis of peace: scene of an 
interlude between an epoch and an epoch. Would she 
ever see it again, she wondered dully. 

Yule still stood on the pavement, but he had ceased to 
look her way now. Mrs. Waldron was coming down her 
own steps with the second-last baby in her arms. 

“ Ha, fat rascal!” said Yule, pulling its curls. 

“Mr. Amber, you’re looking awful!” cried Mrs. Wal¬ 
dron. “ I hope you haven’t got a chill.” 

“ More likely a burn, Mrs. Waldron,” he returned. 
“ I’m afraid that I’ve been playing with fire!” 

X 

“My dearest child, what a delicious surprise!” said 
Claire Wyatt. 

She held Jessamy’s hands and kissed her on both 
cheeks. The warmth of her welcome, the luxurious 
aspect of the house, the smiling maids, the general sense 
of well-being thawed the chill that had crept about Jes¬ 
samy’s heart during the drive to Hampstead. 

She had planned a frank confession of the situation to 
Claire: she had looked forward to the luxury of recount- 


DAYLIGHT 


275 


ing Yule’s intolerable pronouncement and revelling in 
Mrs. Wyatt’s warm sympathy and understanding; but 
now that the moment was actually upon her she felt 
singularly disinclined to make any confidences. 

“ I’ve got back into the world of nice ordinary things 
once more,” she thought. “ Let me enjoy it as long as 
I can.” Aloud she said: “ I thought you wouldn’t mind 
my taking you by surprise like this, Claire.” 

“ Darling, of course I’m only too delighted.” 

“ I had a sudden impulse, and you know how prone I 
am to act on impulse,” Jessamy continued with a flush 
and a deprecatory glance at her stepmother. 

Claire smiled tenderly at her. “ I don’t mind your 
indulging in any impulses that bring you back to me,” 
she said softly. “ Now that you’re home again, I hope 
you won’t be in any hurry to run away.” 

It was an unfortunate phrase. Claire realized that as 
soon as it was uttered. The little sharp-edged silence 
was scarcely perceptible before she bridged it with a 
trivial query. 

“ Have you given Watson your keys, dear?” 

“ Yes, Claire.” 

“ That’s right. Your room is always ready, you know, 
but we’ll give her time to unpack your things before you 
go up. What would you like to do after luncheon?” 

“ Anything you wish.” 

“ A matinee?” 

“ No, not a theatre, if you don’t mind. I think what 
I’d like best would be to drive somewhere into the 
country.” 

“ Happy thought! We’ll leave town and go and look 
for the spring.” Mrs. Wyatt rang the bell and when the 
maid appeared gave orders that the car was to be 
brought round at half-past two. 

“ Oiled wheels!” thought Jessamy with a little sigh. 
“How extraordinarily smoothly everything goes here!” 

Claire turned to her with a sudden air of animation. 


276 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ How is the admirable Yule?” 

“ Very well, thanks,” answered Jessamy, but she red¬ 
dened as she said it. 

“They’ve had a quarrel,” thought Claire exultantly. 
“ That’s why she ran away so early. . . . Poor 

Lucas! At last he has his opportunity.” Aloud she 
said: “ Shall I telephone to Lucas and ask him to join 
us tonight in a little family party? Then it would really 
seem as if you had come home again.” 

Jessamy’s flush deepened. “ Not tonight, I think, 
please, Claire. Let us just be by ourselves tonight, you 
and I.” 

“ Of course that is what I should like best of all. I 
was only being unselfish. . . . Lucas has been very 

good, Jessamy.” 

“ Yes,” murmured Jessamy, twisting her hands to¬ 
gether and breathing quickly. Then she said, as if the 
words were forced from her: “ You mustn’t forget that 
I’m married, Claire.” 

She gave a sigh as she uttered the feeble protest: a 
sigh which was deliberately echoed by Claire as she 
answered: 

“ None of us are likely to forget that, dearest. Poor 
patient Lucas least of all.” 

The luncheon-gong sounded. Both women rose with a 
sense of relief. 

The meal was perfectly cooked and served. Mrs. 
Wyatt was fastidious and always had the best of every¬ 
thing. Jessamy enjoyed the noiseless service, the exqui¬ 
site appointments just as much as the deliciously pre¬ 
pared fish, chicken and macedoine of fruit. 

Claire smiled inwardly as she noted the swift effect of 
her little luxuries on Jessamy, remembering her own 
dictum about the flesh-pots of Egypt. 

More and more did she feel convinced that matters 
had come to a crisis between the girl and her worthy but 
impossible husband. Lucas must be warned. He was 


DAYLIGHT 


277 


already turning restive. ... She would try to get 
through to him while Jessamy was upstairs. 

She rose from the table. 

“ We’ll have coffee in the library before we start. 
Would you like to put on your things first, Jessamy? I 
hope you brought your fur coat.” 

“ Oh, yes.” Jessamy obediently went upstairs, while 
Claire turned into the library and took down the tele¬ 
phone-receiver. 

In an unusually short time she had got on to Grote’s 
office and was in communication with him. 

“ Your chance has come at last, Lucas,” she said. 
“ But you mustn’t muff it at the last moment by over¬ 
hastiness. ... No, she doesn’t want you to come and 
dine tonight. She said so expressly. . . . No, I think 
it’s an excellent sign, shows she’s afraid of you — or her¬ 
self. . . . No, no, no. That won’t do at all. . . . 
’Phone here about five o’clock. I’ll see that she answers 
the telephone. Ask if you may come up here tonight. 
She will scarcely like to refuse you. . . . Then seize 
your opportunity. Yes, that’s the best advice I can give 
you-” Claire was suddenly aware of Jessamy stand¬ 

ing in the doorway behind her, but went on as if she had 
not seen her — “You know I’m not over-lavish of advice, 
as a rule, but if you follow that I don’t think you’ll be 
sorry. . . . Goodbye. Good luck.” 

She rang off and turned to the table where the maid 
had just put down the coffee. 

“ Whom were you advising to seize his opportunity, 
Claire?” Jessamy asked. 

Claire’s slow smile was just a shade more careful than 
usual. “ How clever of you to guess that it was a he, 
dear! ... It was Mr. Ronaldson. He has the re¬ 
fusal of a delightful old manor house in Kent, but he 
hesitates about taking it, and he has done me the honour 
of asking my advice on the subject. I’ve urged him to 
clinch the matter. He won’t get such a chance again.” 



278 


MARSH LIGHTS 


Claire poured out coffee for both and handed Jessamy 
her cup. The smooth, glib explanation — had it been 
just a shade too elaborate, she wondered. She wished 
intensely that she could see into Jessamy’s mind. Had 
she been able to do so she would scarcely have received 
reassurance. 

Jessamy knew that Mr. Ronaldson had been in treaty 
about various country houses: she was well aware that 
he professed a great admiration for Claire, but — she 
could not rid herself of a queer uncomfortable suspicion 
that it was not Mr. Ronaldson to whom Claire had been 
speaking on the telephone, also that the conversation had 
in some way concerned herself. 

“How horribly suspicious I’m growing!” she thought. 
Ashamed of her misgivings she forced herself to show 
that she believed Claire’s statement. “ Does Mr. Ron¬ 
aldson mean anything special by consulting you about 
his future home?” 

“ Anything special? Oh, I see. No, not in the least, 
you absurd child! Why, he’s over head and ears in love 
with Topsy Willoughby, poor man!” 

Jessamy flushed. “ I think it’s rather disgusting the 
way all these men are in love with married women!” 

Claire gave her a quick amused glance. 

“ They can’t help it, poor dears,” she said tolerantly. 

“ They could help letting everybody else know all 
about it.” 

“Darling innocent!” murmured Claire, giving Jes¬ 
samy’s cheek a little caressing pat, which made her 
suddenly feel as if she were about five years old. 

“ At least at Caroline Place they expect me to be a 
woman,” she thought, with a swift, utterly unlooked-for 
reaction. 

But it was impossible to feel either suspicious or re¬ 
sentful as she nestled down in the luxury of Claire’s 
beautiful violet car, which moved almost noiselessly 
through the traffic of the streets and purred its quiet way 


DAYLIGHT 


279 


along semi-country roads, whose villa-gardens were 
already burgeoning with all the gay colours of Spring. 

The cool touch of the air on Jessamy’s cheek refreshed 
her: the sunshine thrilled her like a song: the sight of 
the surging life around her, in man and beast as well as 
flower and tree exhilarated her oddly. She forgot all 
that irritated her. She put the thought of Yule and his 
ultimatum behind her for the moment, as she listened 
to the mild chronique scandaleuse which Claire’s clear 
voice was recounting, with a reassuring sense of amused 
worldly wisdom. Claire, quick to note shades and 
moods, was subtly pouring balm on the vanity which 
she had scratched by calling Jessamy a darling innocent. 
She talked to Jessamy now as one married woman to 
another: and had induced in the girl a sense of almost 
luxurious contentment by the time the violet car turned 
in once more at the gates of Tudor Lodge. 

They were just going to tea when the telephone bell 
rang. 

“ See who it is, like a darling,” begged Claire. 

Jessamy ran into the library, as she had done many 
a time before in answer to a similar appeal. She had 
the odd dreamlike sense of having lived through this 
more than once as she took the receiver down. 

“ Is that Mrs. Wyatt speaking?” She heard immedi¬ 
ately in Grote’s voice. The sound shook her. 

“ No. . . . Do you want her?” 

It was as if the net of memory, suddenly flung round 
her, jerked her back into the pool of the past, washing 
out all that had gone between. . . . How often had 

she stood there in this very room talking on the telephone 
to Lucas? 

“ Yes, please. But who is speaking? Is it you, Jess?” 
Grote’s voice rang exultantly. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Are you at Tudor Lodge?” 

“ Yes.” 


280 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“ Will you be there this evening ? n 

“Yes . . . I’m staying here.” 

“ Splendid! I was going to ask Claire if I might come 
round after dinner. Will you be in?” 

“ Ye —es.” 

“ Good. Then expect me about nine. I’ll count the 
minutes till I see you.” Grote rang off, giving no time 
for denial or protest. 

As Jessamy turned away from the telephone with flut¬ 
tering pulses, her eye was caught by the little Dutch 
picture on the wall: Nanetty’s picture: the first link in 
the chain of circumstance which so strangely bound 
together Tudor Lodge and Caroline Place. In the be¬ 
wildering swirl of her thoughts she accepted Yule’s 
quaint personification of their dual destinies with a sense 
of fatality. Even as her father bought the mellow little 
picture Tudor Lodge and Caroline Place were converging 
inevitably towards each other. . . . Was it Fate? 

Had all this been written? . . . She looked at the 

picture for a moment with a touch of awe. Then she 
went back to the drawing-room. 

Mrs. Wyatt glanced up from the tea-table. 

“ Well, who was it, dearest?” 

“ Lucas,” answered Jessamy. “ He wants to come 
round tonight after dinner.” 

“ I hope you didn’t put him off, darling?” 

“ No,” said Jessamy, her voice still shaken. “ He 
didn’t give me a chance. He rang off as soon as I said 
we weren’t going anywhere.” 

“ Wise man,” smiled Claire. “ He doesn’t want to 
risk the chance of losing his poor little half-loaf.” 

She turned the conversation to other topics with her 
usual ease, wondering meanwhile when Jessamy was 
going to tell her about her falling out with Amber. She 
was glad that affairs were coming to a climax at last. 
Lucas was daily growing more difficult. She was getting 
tired of her own role, too. She felt that she had nobly 


DAYLIGHT 


281 


earned that extra thousand a year, which was going to 
take her on a world-tour, to places where she would play 
a more important part than that of second fiddle. 

When at last Jessamy rose to go to her own room 
Claire detained her with a gesture. 

“ You’re going to be kind to poor Lucas tonight?” she 
queried softly. 

“Kind? . . . What do you mean, Claire?” 

“ Darling, don’t think I don’t realize how awfully hard 
it has been for you both. . . . There’s no lover like 

one’s first lover, the man who opens the gates of Paradise 
to you and shows you the way in. . . . Let Lucas 

open the gate again, dearest.” 

“ Claire, what are you urging?” 

“I? Njothing, Jessamy, but a little kindness to the 
man who has loved you so long and so faithfully. If only 
you were free I know what I should urge.” 

“ But I am free,” cried Jessamy, the words out almost 
before she knew. “ Yule will set me free whenever I 
wish.” 

“Jessamy! . . . Oh, my darling, why didn’t you 

tell me this when first you came? You knew how I 
would have rejoiced.” Claire made a movement as if 
she would have embraced the girl, but Jessamy shrank 
away. 

“I — I — it all seems rather indecent,” faltered 
Jessamy. 

“ Poor love, no wonder! But things will soon right 
themselves,” smiled Claire with easy optimism. “ I 
can’t think of anything but the one blessed fact that you 
and Lucas will be happy at last.” 

“ Claire, you’re very generous,” said Jessamy turning 
away with reddened cheeks. 

“I? Oh, no, dearest,” answered Claire. 

But her deprecation rang as false as her sentiment 
had done if Jessamy had only had the ears to hear it. 

The girl was numbed to all else save the imminence of 


282 


MARSH LIGHTS 


the decision which she had to make. Claire’s easy way 
of taking things for granted seemed to draw the net 
closer about her. At least Yule had left her free, had 
deliberately cut her adrift from any entanglement of 
memory, place, or mood. Claire seemed to surround her 
with a closely-woven mesh of all three. 

She went up to her room dazed as in a dream. 

XI 

Still in a dream Jessamy did her hair and changed 
into the frock which Dawson had laid out upon her bed. 
It was one of the new gowns which she had bought for 
her recent gaieties: a simple little ivory-white dinner 
frock, with a sash of soft gold tissue knotted loosely at 
one side. White silk stockings and gold shoes were 
placed in readiness, and a gold fillet for her hair. 

As the girl gazed at her reflection in the long mirror 
she wondered what she would feel like, what decision 
she would have made by the time she looked into that 
glass again. 

She honestly did not know. Her mind was in a tur¬ 
moil of uncertainty. At thought of Lucas she was con¬ 
scious of a strange sensation, half fear, half physical 
thrill. She sat down suddenly on the side of her bed, her 
hands unconsciously gripping the linen and lace bed¬ 
spread. 

“ I must think. I must think,” she murmured des¬ 
perately. 

Take Lucas first. ... Of course she loved him 
. . . she had always loved him, except when she had 
hated him, and one always hated most the person whom 
one loved best. ... He loved her, too. He had 
been patient, as Claire had said. Never had he over¬ 
stepped the boundary of friendship which he had set 
between the old days and the new, except with his eyes, 
his hungry, burning eyes. 


DAYLIGHT 


283 


Jessamy shivered with a queer little thrill at the 
thought of those eyes, of whose fire she was always con¬ 
scious when in his presence, whether she was looking at 
him or not. . . . Hungry eyes . . . disturbing 

eyes. Yule had never looked at her like that . . . 

until last night. How rough, how outrageous he had 
been last night! He had almost hurt her physically. 
She still felt angry at the thought. . . . But he was 
her husband, after all. He had never taken anything 
else. It was she who had taken everything, and given 
nothing in exchange, nothing that really mattered any 
more than the frills and pink cushions of his first wife. 
Nanetty, with her sharp tongue had stripped her bare of 
her muffling little pretences. . . . Would it be fair, 

would it be right for her to take still more from Yule and 
buy her own happiness at the price of his honour? 

That was what it practically amounted to. She knew 
now what honour meant to Yule, to Nanetty. . . . 

Reluctantly she forced herself to admit that it did not 
seem to mean as much here, where people laughed and 
made a joke of men’s love-affairs with married women. 
. . . “ And really married women, too,” she told 

herself hotly. “ Not like me. Oh, how can they? . . .” 
Next moment honesty compelled her to ask herself: 
“ How can I?” She buried her burning face in her 
hands. “ Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know! . . . 
Why is everything so dreadfully complicated?” 

She did not realize that it was she herself who had 
complicated matters when she had run out of Tudor 
Lodge and into Yule Amber’s life. She was incapable of 
clear thinking in that bewildering moment. 

“ If only I had a little longer time to think. It all 
seems to have rushed on me so suddenly. I’m not ready. 
I’m not prepared. . . . Does Lucas mean all the 

world to me? Do I feel that I can’t live without him? 
Oh, I don’t know. ... I don’t know. I can’t be 
sure till I see him again.” 


284 


MARSH LIGHTS 


She rose and straightened the bedspread mechanically, 
looking longingly at the quiet refuge the white bed 
offered. If only she could creep into it and lie there 
quietly, undisturbed in her thinking! . . . She shook 
her head. 

“ I mustn’t run away again,” she thought. “ I’ve got 
to face it out this time.” 

She dusted her flushed face with powder and went 
downstairs. 

Claire surveyed her with distinct approval as she 
entered the drawing-room. 

“How lovely you look, darling!” she exclaimed. 
“ That’s a most becoming little frock. Who made it for 
you? Anne Silke? Ah, I thought so. She has quite a 
touch of her own.” 

Jessamy, snatching at the harmless topic of chiffons, 
discussed it feverishly until the dinner-gong sounded. 

“ I’m having a small bottle of champagne tonight,” 
smiled Claire. “ Just to celebrate your home-coming. 
You must take a glass, dear. It will do you good.” 

Jessamy, sipping the wine rather distastefully, found 
that it really did help her to pull herself together. Both 
women were conscious of a sense of climax, against 
which they talked during the progress of the meal. 
Claire sketched plans for the future, airily but conclu¬ 
sively. 

“ You will like to go abroad, dearest, for a time. The 
Swiss mountains in the summer are really delightful, and 
the Italian lakes are quite possible until August, I 
believe.” 

“ It’s always pleasant to plan tours even if they don’t 
come off,” smiled Jessamy, feeling the pull of the net and 
thinking, even as she spoke, of other things •— “ Here 
I have no choice. Tudor Lodge has chosen for me 
already.” 

The maids left the room as Claire rejoined: 

“ But you must go somewhere, dear, while you’re wait- 


DAYLIGHT 


285 


ing for your divorce, or annulment, or whatever it is, to 
go through, and you’d like to get out of England, 
naturally.” 

“ Oh, don’t,” said Jessamy, with flaming cheeks. 

She felt smirched already at thought of contact with 
these sordid, dingy backstairs of life. Then, on a sud¬ 
den impulse, she leaned forward: “ Don’t tell Lucas 
about — about Yule and me tonight, please, Claire.” 

Mrs. Wyatt lifted her heavy white lids. “ Why not?” 

“I — I don’t know, only I’d rather you didn’t. 
Please, Claire.” 

Really, the girl looked extraordinarily pretty tonight. 
Her heightened colour was most becoming and the great 
pleading eyes looked enormous in her delicate little face. 
. . . Mrs. Wyatt smiled. 

“ Just as you wish, dearest, of course.” Inwardly 
she thought: “Lucas must play his own hand now. 
He’s been dummy long enough. It’s my turn to efface 
myself.” Aloud she said: “We shan’t have coffee until 
Lucas comes. He always says he gets better coffee 
here than anywhere in London.” 

“ Yes. It’s delicious,” agreed Jessamy, her pulses 
fluttering. “I — I’ve forgotten my handkerchief, Claire. 
I’ll just run up and fetch it.” 

“ Send Dawson, darling.” 

“ I’d rather go myself. I’m not used-” she 

stopped abruptly and ran up the stairs. 

When she had found a handkerchief to give colour to 
her errand she stood in the middle of the room for a 
moment fighting hard against the sudden gust of ner¬ 
vousness that shook her. She had the disturbing sense of 
being rushed into a decision for which she was by no 
means prepared, and it frightened her. Then a quieting 
thought came. 

“ Claire won’t tell Lucas tonight and I certainly 
shan’t. We can be just nice and ordinary until I’ve 
properly worked this thing out. It’s only fair to Yule 



286 


MARSH LIGHTS 


that I should be quite, quite sure of my own feelings 
before I ask him to — what was it Nanetty called it? 
— drag his clean name in the mud. ... Of course I 
don’t love Yule, not in that way. But I do like him, and 
he is clean, and good — and safe. I — I trust him, in 
spite of the outrageous way he behaved last night.” 
Jessamy, full of a new worldly wisdom, shook her gold- 
bound head. “ Men are queer. They’re different from 
us. They — take things differently.” 

With a sudden new sense of security she turned to 
leave the room, and ran down the stairs with a lighter 
heart than had been hers when she mounted them. Cross¬ 
ing the hall towards the drawing-room she heard Claire’s 
voice raised to a sharpened note of annoyance. 

“ How could I possibly tell you when I ’phoned you 
after lunch? I didn’t know it myself then.” 

“ Well, better late than never, I suppose,” came in 
Grote’s unmistakable tones. 

Jessamy stood still, her hands clasped together in sud¬ 
den consternation. . . . The mean suspicion for which 
she had chid herself had not been unwarranted after all. 
It was to Lucas that Claire had telephoned, and the con¬ 
versation had been about her. It was all a lie about Mr. 
Ronaldson, a glib, prompt lie. ... If Claire had lied 
about that might she not also have lied? . . . 

Jessamy gasped at the abyss that appeared to yawn 
suddenly in front of her. That long-ago evening seemed 
to repeat itself in crude and cruel detail. But this time 
she was not going to run away. Her months at Caroline 
Place had given her a new outlook, a higher courage. 
There was still Lucas to cling to. He, at least, had not 
deceived her. . . . Perhaps Claire hadn’t, either. 

Oh, she must be sure . . . she must be quite 

sure. . . . 

She pushed one of the chairs in the hall to give warn¬ 
ing of her coming, and walked into the drawing-room 
with head erect, in spite of her thudding heart. 


DAYLIGHT 


287 


XII 

Grote sprang up to greet her, his eyes shining as he 
came towards her. Jessamy noticed how extraordinarily 
bright they were as she gave him her hand. He kissed it 
before he led her forward to the deep chintz-covered 
chair he had placed in readiness for her. 

“ This is a piece of luck,” he said. “ I knew, of 
course, that you were coming to stay here sometime, but 
I had no idea that it would be so soon.” 

“ Nor I,” answered Jessamy, trying to speak lightly. 
“ I made up my mind in a hurry, as usual.” 

“ Darling, your coffee is quite cold,” said Claire plain¬ 
tively, shooting a warning look at Grote. “ I wouldn’t 
have poured it out-” 

“ It doesn’t matter,” Jessamy thrust in, reaching out 
for her cup. 

“ It does matter,” said Grote masterfully. “ Put this 
away, Claire, and give her a fresh cup.” 

Claire obeyed with a smile. 

“ Drink this, Jess, you’re looking pale,” Grote said. 

“Am I?” Jessamy took the coffee-cup from him. 

“ She was rosy enough a short time ago,” said Claire 
with what the Victorians would have called an arch air. 

“We must bring back those roses again,” Grote said 
in a tone out of which he could not keep his exultance. 

Jessamy felt hemmed in: surrounded. Lucas seemed 
suddenly to have taken possession of her. She had never 
noticed such possessiveness before. Was it because she 
had always been dimly conscious of Yule in the back¬ 
ground? But now Yule had sent her away alone, to face 
the future and make her choice unaided. . . . 

Her pallor, her shyness, her evident perturbation were 
alike adorable to Grote, tribute to his masculinity as he 
felt them to be. 

There was a certain tension in the atmosphere which 
Jessamy, at least, made no attempt to ease. Her mind 
was whirling again. She felt almost as if she were walk- 



288 


MARSH LIGHTS 


ing on a quicksand, where any movement might plunge 
her into choking depths out of which she might never 
rise. . . . 

Was there anything whatever solid, stable, unshift¬ 
ing in this strange new world? Anything to which she 
might cling in her desperate need? Surely Lucas . . . 
he was so strong, so big, so masterful. . . . 

As in a dream she saw Grote ring for the coffee-cups to 
be taken away: saw the maid enter and remove the tray: 
saw Claire rise with one of her slow graceful movements: 
heard her say: 

“ You’ll excuse me if I leave you for a moment. I’ve 
just remembered a telephone message that I must send.” 

Jessamy turned to her with a strange look, wild, 
appealing, accusatory. 

“ Is it to Mr. Ronaldson, Claire?” 

“ No, not this time, darling,” Mrs. Wyatt answered, 
startled at the thrust. She turned when she got to the 
door and looked sharply back at Jessamy. 

The girl was staring into the fire with eyes that saw 
nothing! Claire’s answer rang false. Claire had 
deliberately deceived her. Was it for the first time? 
Surely not ... oh, surely not. 

The door closed softly. Its click sounded to Grote like 
the pistol-shot that starts a race. But his race had 
started long ago. It was nearly over now. He was 
winning, he had already won ... at last ... at 
last. 

He dropped on his knees, in front of Jessamy’s chair 
and put his arms about her, prisoning her. 

“ You are mine now,” he said hoarsely. 

Jessamy started. His sudden nearness confused her. 

“Let me go, Lucas. I can’t think when you’re so 
near me,” she panted, trying to push him away. 

“ I don’t want you to think.” 

“ But I must. ... I must.” 

“ But you mustn’t. ... You mustn’t,” he mocked 


DAYLIGHT 


289 


exultantly. “ I’m going to do your thinking for you 
now and henceforth.” 

“ Then you know-?” 

“ I know that you’re going to get rid of-” 

“ Claire told you?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ When she telephoned to you after lunch?” Jessamy’s 
breath came quickly as if she had been running. 

“No, not then. She said tonight that she didn’t 
know it then, she only suspected that there had been a 
split between you. She told me, just before you came 
in now, that you’re going to divorce Amber.” 

“ She promised me that she wouldn’t,” cried Jessamy 
wildly. “She promised ... she lied, lied, lied! 
Did she lie too when she tried to persuade me that you 
and she weren’t lovers? . . . Answer me, Lucas?” 

Grote’s grip tightened about her. His darkening face 
was very near her white excited one, his breath was hot 
on her cheek. 

“ Why rake up that old forgotten story?” 

“ It’s not forgotten, and I must know. I must.” 

She shook his broad shoulders as if she would shake 
the truth out of him. “ Tell me. . . . Tell me!” 

Grote laughed. “ Do you realize that you’re asking 
me to kiss and tell, Jess? That’s a thing a man never 
does.” 

“ Thanks. . . . You’ve answered me,” said Jes¬ 

samy swaying backwards into the chair, faint and sick. 

Grote’s arms felt like bars as he pulled her towards 
him. 

“ By God, you’ve played fast and loose with me long 
enough!” he cried, his voice thick with passion. “I’m 
not going to let you go now. You’re mine — mine! ” 

He crushed her slim, resisting body fiercely to him, 
showering kisses on her face and neck, pulling her head 
round until his hot, hungry lips were crushed on hers, 
stifling her breath. 




290 


MARSH LIGHTS 


Jessamy struggled feebly until she could fight no 
longer, but Grote, swept away by the rush of a long- 
curbed passion, scarcely seemed to notice. 

His grip hurt her, his kisses scorched and outraged. 
Jessamy was conscious only of a sick, trembling disgust 
and terror. This . . . this was not love, this mad, 

beastlike passion. This had no cleanness, no worship in 
it, no faintest spark of the divine fire that must inevi¬ 
tably light human love at its highest. 

This was not like Yule’s embrace of last night. . . . 
She was aware of this without being able to formulate 
her thoughts. At last she knew that she did not love 
Grote, that she had never loved him, that she had only 
loved the glamour of love with which his ardour had 
surrounded her. 

She felt soiled in real earnest now. Grote’s crushing 
clasp, his hot breath, his hungry seeking mouth only 
revolted her. Nothing within her answered to his pas¬ 
sion, as she lay like a dead thing in his arms. 

At last he released her sufficiently to look at her. She 
was very pale, except for the red marks on her cheeks 
and throat where his caresses had hurt her. 

“My lovely girl! My lovely girl!” he whispered in 
husky triumph. “ Did I frighten you, darling?” 

“ Yes,” she breathed through stiff lips. 

Grote laughed. “ You’ll soon grow used to your 
bear’s hugs and love them as much as I do.” 

Jessamy shivered. Her long lashes curled blackly 
against the pallor of her cheeks. 

“ You — hurt me, Lucas.” 

Grote laughed again. “ You shouldn’t be such a little 
icicle, then. . . . You’re a woman now, Jess, and 

you’ve got to love me as a woman should. Come, my 
lovely darling, put a little fire into your kisses. You’ve 
kept me starving for so long that my appetite for them 
has grown enormous.” 

He bent towards her, his eyes devouring her hotly. 


DAYLIGHT 


291 


Jessamy shivered again and put out her hands. 

“ No, no, no,” she cried on a rising note of terror. 

“ Yes, yes, yes,” said Grote, his hungry lips crushing 
hers once more. . . . 

At last he released her, his passion spent for the 
moment. He went and stood in his favourite attitude by 
the mantelpiece, looking down at her with a half-trium¬ 
phant, half-shamefaced smile. 

She lay in the big chair, limp and broken. Long shud¬ 
ders shook her from head to foot. Grote felt a touch 
of compunction. 

“ Have I really frightened you, Jess? I didn’t mean 
to be so rough, but — you know what a feast means to 
a starving man?” He laughed deprecatingly. “ To¬ 
morrow you’ll want me to do it again! ” 

“ Tomorrow-” Jessamy echoed dully. She opened 

her eyes and rose shakily to her feet. “Tomorrow! 

. . . I — I. . . .” She clutched at her vanishing 

self-control. 

At all costs she must get out of the room, away 
from him, away from Claire. “I — I’m tired now, 
Lucas,” she said childishly, though in truth childhood 
had fled from her for ever. “ I must go to bed. . . . 

Tell Claire not to disturb me.” 

“ Oh, I say, you’re not going to desert me like this,” 
protested Grote. 

Jessamy bit her lip to check a scream that was almost 
out. 

“ Yes, yes, please. ... I must. . . . I’m 
tired. . . . Don’t stop me. . . . You mustn’t 
stop me, Lucas.” 

At sight of her evident agitation he gave in suddenly. 

. . The girl was over-wrought. Perhaps he had 

been a bit too precipitate. He had certainly lost his 
head. He mustn’t risk losing anything else now that the 
goal was at last in sight. 

“ All right, Jess. Of course I won’t stop you, darling. 



29 2 


MARSH LIGHTS 


Go to bed and have a good night’s rest and dream of 
the man who adores you!” 

She gave him a quick frightened glance. “ Are you 
that man, Lucas?” 

“ Of course I am, darling. Doesn’t your own heart 
tell you so?” Grote made a step towards her. 

As if his movement had suddenly galvanized her into 
life, Jessamy started back violently, slipped past him 
and fled from the room. He stirred as if to follow in 
pursuit, then checked himself. 

“ She’s tantalizingly lovely,” he sighed. “ And much 
better worth while than if she were of the easy sort. 
. . . She’ll come to my call like a bird before long, if 
I know anything of women! . . . Little shy, beauti¬ 
ful darling!” 

He went to the library, where Claire was reading a 
French novel and smoking an Egyptian cigarette and 
feeling very cosmopolitan, to tell her of the success 
of his wooing, and to warn her to let Jessamy alone for 
the night. 


XIII 

Jessamy, behind a locked door, feverishly tore off her 
evening dress and the gold fillet that bound her hair. 

The room was quietly welcoming. It had been 
arranged for the night. In the grate a little fire crack¬ 
led: the embroidered linen sheet was turned down, her 
night-dress unfolded, her dressing-gown and slippers laid 
in readiness. A gay cosy covered the brass hot-water 
jug. 

Hastily she ran to the wash-stand and poured the hot 
water into the basin, never resting until she had vig¬ 
orously sponged away the feeling of Grote’s kisses. The 
memory of them she felt that she could never efface. 

With the physical cleansing came a sudden clarity of 
thought. . . . She must go away, get out of the 


DAYLIGHT 


293 


place as quickly as possible. In spite of her good resolu¬ 
tions she must run away once more. That hateful, long- 
ago, nightmare evening was to repeat itself down to the 
last detail. . . . Nb, no, not that. Then she had run 
away out into the night, into the unknown. Now, though 
she must again run away, she had somewhere to go, 
some one to run to: kind sheltering arms, that had 
gathered her gently out of her former troubles, would 
clasp her again and lift her into a place of safety. . . . 
Oh, the rest, the joy of the thought! 

She must be quick, though. She must get away before 
any one thought of such a possibility. Her mind worked 
swiftly as she took a day dress out of the wardrobe, and 
put on a pair of grey suede shoes instead of her gold 
ones. She hastily put her toilet accessories into her 
dressing-case, and stuffed in her night-gown as well. 
Then she drew on a close-fitting hat, slipped into her fur 
coat, took her gold mesh bag out of her trunk and pre¬ 
pared for flight. 

Her heart was beating so loudly that she felt as if the 
whole household must hear it, as she opened her door and 
peeped out into the corridor. No one was in sight. She 
switched off the bedroom light, put the key in the outside 
of the door, locked it and laid the key under the edge of 
the mat where it would not be too easily found. Then 
she stole along the corridor to the servants’ staircase and 
held her breath again as she listened. Sounds of merri¬ 
ment rose to her ears from the kitchen premises. She 
was safe from observation in that quarter, that is, if 
none of the maids happened to be sweethearting at the 
side door. 

She crept down the back-stairs. Luck favoured her. 
No one was at the door. She opened and closed it 
cautiously behind her, tiptoeing over to where a grass 
border would steal the sound of her footsteps. She took 
cover behind the shrubs as she hurried down the drive. 
When she came to the curve she ran, nor did she slacken 


294 


MARSH LIGHTS 


speed until she found herself out in the quiet residential 
road. There she forced herself to slow down to a walk. 
She did not want to attract any unnecessary attention. 
. . . If any one went to her room and tried to enter 

they would think she was asleep when they found it 
locked. . . . She wished that she had poked the key 
farther in under the mat. . . . She hoped that no 
one would see it. . . . 

Oh, if she were only safely back at Caroline Place! It 
was the one thing she longed for. Beyond that, thought 
did not go at present. She only knew she would never 
feel safe until she reached that dear haven once again. 

Fortune still favoured her flight. Just as she turned 
into the more populous district of Hampstead a taxi¬ 
cab stopped outside a house to deposit a fare. She 
hailed the driver eagerly and got into the cab. 

“ Caroline Place, Thames Embankment. Down Vaux- 
hall Bridge Road and turn to the right by the river,” she 
explained breathlessly. “ Hurry, please.” 

“ Know it well, lady,” the chauffeur answered. “ I’ll 
have you there in a tick.” 

But it seemed a very long “ tick ” to Jessamy before 
the taxi turned down by the darkly gleaming river 
towards the old cream-coloured houses which she had 
left so determinedly — was it only that very morning? 
It seemed incredible that the events of the day, so 
stupendous, so epochal did they now loom in Jessamy’s 
vision, should have taken place in a few hours. 

Her pulses quickened as the taxi turned into the little 
bend in which the three old houses stood stranded, drawn 
back a little from their more modern neighbours. She 
put her head out of the window. 

“ The end house, No. 1,” she said excitedly. 

She did not wait for the chauffeur to open the door. 
She was out on the pavement before he had made his 
own more deliberate descent, opening her gold bag and 
thrusting a pound-note into his hand. 


DAYLIGHT 


295 


“ I dunno as I’ve got the proper change for this, lady,” 
he said. 

“ I don’t want any change,” she cried. 

“ But it’s too much, lady,” said the man, stirred to 
protest by some faint unrealized impulse of chivalry. 

“ It’s not half enough,” said Jessamy. “ Please keep 
it.” 

“ Aw right. Thank you, lady. Shall I wait till you 
gets in?” 

“ Oh, no, thanks. I’ve got my key. I’ll let myself 
in.” 

The man deposited her dressing-bag on the top of the 
steps before he went away, puzzled but decidedly jubi¬ 
lant over his windfall. 

Jessamy, now that her goal was reached, stood hesitant 
for a moment, looking at the house. There was no light 
in the basement. That meant that the servants had gone 
to bed. No light in the hall, no light anywhere — save 
in Yule’s little workroom over the hall-door. 

She wondered if he were working there. He never 
went to bed until late, she knew. She had often listened 
for the closing of his door. She would steal in very 
quietly, creep up the stairs, open his door and give him 
a surprise. Her coming like this would startle him, she 
knew, but oh, he would be glad ... he would be 
glad. . . . 

She fumbled in her bag for her latch-key. It was not 
there. Suddenly she remembered that she had left it on 
her dressing-table that morning. How stupid of her! 
Now she could not put her little plan into action. . . . 
How disappointing! 

The distant purring of a motor car smote upon her 
consciousness. It was going at a tremendous pace, 
coming rapidly nearer and nearer. . . . Supposing, 

oh, supposing that it were Lucas — that he was coming 
after her. ... In a sudden unreasoning panic she 
beat upon the door with her bare hands. 


296 


MARSH LIGHTS 


“Yule! Yule!” she cried. “Let me in!” 

She heard the scrape of a chair pushed rapidly back. 
A quick step crossed the room and a head was thrust out 
through the open window. 

“ Yule, it’s me, Jessamy. Let me in — quick, quick, 
quickI” 

The car came nearer and nearer. To her excited 
imagination it was like a panting beast hot on her track. 
. . . like Lucas . . . like Lucas! ... It swept 
along by the river as the door opened and she stumbled 
into Yule’s arms. 

“Yule! . . . Yule! . . she clung to him, 

gasping and trembling. 

“ What have they been doing to you?” asked Yule 
fiercely, drawing her into the house. 

She could not answer. Her senses failed her as she 
lay there panting in his arms, just conscious of the 
blessed sense of safety, of protection for which she had 
longed. Amber stooped and lifted her against his breast 
as he had done on that first night when she stumbled 
into his life, into his heart. An overwhelming pity and 
a surging rage warred within him as he carried her into 
the drawing-room and sat down on the couch, still holding 
her closely in his arms. 

The room was cold and through the uncurtained 
windows the light from the street-lamp without shone 
palely across its uncertain dusk. Suddenly pity and 
anger went out like two blown candle-flames. Amber 
was conscious of nothing but the glorious light of a dawn¬ 
ing hope. 

Out of the night she had come to him once before, 
unwittingly. Out of the night she had run to him now, 
as to a sure, known refuge. What could this sudden, this 
amazing flight mean but that she had chosen him . . . 
him? Nothing else mattered. . . . 

At last she spoke. He bent his head to hear the quiv¬ 
ering whisper. 


DAYLIGHT 


297 


“ Yule. . . . I’ve come home.” 

“ Yes, my very dearest.” 

“ You’ll keep me safe?” 

“ To my last breath.” 

Jessamy gave a long, long sigh of relief. “ I know you 
will. I trust you. You’re straight. You’re true. You’ve 
never deceived me.” 

“ No,” whispered Yule. “ Nor you me.” 

“ I’ve tried to be straight,” she sighed. “ You’ll be 
patient with me, Yule, won’t you? You’ll teach me to 
love you? It won’t be very hard. I want to so badly. 
Just be gentle with me, and don’t — don’t frighten me, 
Yule.” 

On the word she turned her face against his shoulder 
and began to cry, not violently, but quietly, as if the 
tears were a relief, washing away some hidden bitterness. 

Yule, with fury in his heart against Grote, held her 
closer but still gently. . . . Please God, he would 

never frighten her, never show himself unworthy of the 
trust she reposed in him. . . . But what had that 

brute done to terrify her like this? . . . And Mrs. 

Wyatt? . . . Why hadn’t she prevented it? . . . 

She evidently wasn’t fit to be trusted with her. What 
had they done between them? . . . 

When the sobs stilled themselves Amber took out his 
silk handkerchief and gently dried Jessamy’s eyes. 

“ Don’t cry any more, sweetheart,” he murmured. 
“ You shall never be frightened or hurt again if I can 
help it. I’ll stand between you and the world, Jessamy, 
as we planned from the beginning.” 

“Oh, Yule, Yule, you are good! You are generous! 

If you only knew-” She shuddered at the thought 

of that evening. She could not bring herself to speak 
of it yet. 

“ It’s enough for me to know that you’ve come home 
at last.” 

“ But it isn’t enough for me,” cried Jessamy, with a 



298 


MARSH LIGHTS 


touch of her old impulsiveness. She straightened herself 
against him, holding on tightly to his coat and speaking 
very quickly. “ I’ve been a beast, Yule dear, a horrid, 
selfish, little beast! I’ve treated you abominably and 
I’m not half, no, nor quarter good enough for you. 
You’ve given me everything, and I’ve just grabbed it all 
and given nothing in exchange. . . . I’m deadly, 

desperately ashamed of myself. . . . You’ve taught 

me anything I know that’s worth knowing, you, with your 
chivalry and clean, gentle manhood and Nanetty with 
her kindness and crystal-clear honesty. . . . No, let 
me finish. . . . You’re the only people who ever 

showed me the things that matter. You — you’ve saved 
me from — oh, from worse abysses than I ever dreamed 
of! . . .” Jessamy broke off, shuddering and clinging 
to him. “ Oh, Yule, Yule. Can you forgive me?” 

“ Dearest, I love you. There is nothing to forgive.” 

Amber, profoundly touched, exalted and humiliated all 
in one, as love ever is in the presence of love, bent his 
head till his cheek touched hers. 

“ Sweetheart, sweetheart, let’s forget what’s behind us. 
This is a glorious new world for us both and we’re going 
to explore it together, hand in hand, aren’t we?” 

“ Hand in hand,” echoed Jessamy. “ And you’ll never 
let me go again, Yule?” 

“ Never again, my wife.” 

“ That sounds heavenly safe,” sighed Jessamy con¬ 
tentedly. 

“ I hope you will always feel safe with me,” said Yule 
humbly. 

“ I know I shall — dear — husband,” Jessamy mur¬ 
mured. Then with a quick movement she put one arm 
round Yule’s neck. “ I want to be a real wife to you, 
my man, a real mate, if only you’ll be very patient with 
me and teach me how.” 

“ My heart’s core!” cried Yule, hoarsely. 

Their lips met and in that first mutual kiss, Jessamy 


DAYLIGHT 


299 


learned something of the white fire, the reverent passion 
of real love in its highest human manifestation: some¬ 
thing that effaced from her memory Grote’s searing kisses 
and the flickering marsh light which had almost lured her 
into the quagmire: something that seemed to open the 
gates of Paradise itself and show her gleams of an un¬ 
dreamed-of ecstasy. 

Gone for ever was Yule’s “ sweete Hell and sorrowfull 
Paradis.” The two had already set out, hand in hand, 
for that enchanted country whither — 

“ Never a man may find the way 
If he look for it alone.” 

































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